


Mirrorball

by partialresonance



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Armitage Hux & Ben Solo Friendship, Background Reylo, Brendol Hux's A+ Parenting, Cursed Armitage Hux, Explicit Consent, Gingerpilot, Knight Poe Dameron, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Prince Armitage Hux, Prince Ben Solo, Princes & Princesses, Protective Ben Solo, Subverted Trope, Touch-Starved Armitage Hux, True Love's Kiss, obedience curse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28422969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partialresonance/pseuds/partialresonance
Summary: Ever since he was a very young boy, Armitage has always had to do what others asked of him. He had resigned himself to this life, giving up on finding a way to break the curse, until he meets Poe.
Relationships: Armitage Hux & Ben Solo, Poe Dameron/Armitage Hux, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 43
Kudos: 60





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm generally not very good at medieval/historical settings, so have a completely un-researched fic that draws HEAVILY on worldbuilding from the Witcher. XD

Ever since he was a very young boy, Armitage has always had to do what others asked of him. Not just because he wanted to be good—though he did. Not just because he would be punished for disobeying—though he was. No, for Armitage is has never even been a matter of choice. Once a command is laid at his feet, he is compelled to follow the very letter of it, as if there were invisible strings attached to him at various points that would pull him along, willingly or not.

He grew used to it, after a while, such that he did not even notice the curse unless he fought against it. And fighting it caused such immediate agony, like fire spreading through his bones, that unless the command was exceedingly abhorrent he did not even attempt to question it.

For a few years, when Armitage was old enough to leave his mother’s side and play with the other children of the House, he thought that all children were forced to obey, as he was. It came as a shock to the young prince the first time he saw his older brother defy their father’s command to stay within the gardens. Brendol II had cast a mischievous look at his younger brother, whose feet were rooted to the flagstones while the crown prince scaled the low garden wall.

Armitage had wandered through the gardens afterwards, blind to the beauty of the flowering bushes and the lily pond and the multicolored butterflies that sipped nectar beneath the warm summer sun. He had come upon his mother reading in a quiet corner, and rushed to her side. She marked her place with a pale, slender finger as Armitage clutched at her gown and pelted her with questions.

He was chagrined to see tears leap to her eyes. Always sensitive to the moods of others, Armitage immediately regretted whatever he had done to make his mother cry. But at length she answered him, in halting words that Armitage would later understand to be half-truths, heavily edited to make his father seem less a monster, to make his own fate seem less of a doom. She told him that he was very special; that he was a smart and good little boy who had always cared very much about pleasing others; that he must keep good company from here on out, and never allow himself to be alone with someone who would take advantage of his gift.

“Gift?” Armitage had inquired, staring up at his mother with guileless grey eyes. It hadn’t seemed like a gift, since it had allowed his older brother to explore beyond the gardens while Armitage had been left behind.

“Yes, my love.” Armitage’s mother had cupped his cheek. “You have the gift of listening. It is a very valuable skill to have, one that will serve you well in life and make you powerful in a way that strength of arm alone never could.” She had leaned close to him then, and even though he was but a young boy Armitage knew that her words held two meanings as she said, “Always listen well, my child.”

And so, he had.

As the years passed, the young prince learned to linger around open doorways, to hide behind doors and tapestries so he may listen to the many things said within the walls of his father’s keep. He learned of secret trysts between kitchen workers, of mistakes made and hastily covered up, of how the people of the House really felt about his father. King Brendol had always been a vaguely intimidating presence to him, but Armitage had not been forced to spend much time in his company. He was not crown prince, like his brother who was born to Queen Maratelle. Armitage’s mother was a consort, not a queen, and though by the laws of Arkanis that made him a legitimate part of his father’s House, he would inherit no lands or titles unless his brother died. All of this Armitage learned by listening, and for a little while he believed his mother, who had told him it was a gift.

That changed when one day Armitage and Brendol II were excused from a small feast in honor of a battle won to play with the son of Sir Enric Pryde, their father’s general. His son, also named Enric, was an older boy who had no doubt heard the tales of the young prince cursed to obey. As Brendol II looked on, Enric commanded Armitage to cut up a tapestry that had hung in the palace for generations, and to confess to the crime, saying that he had acted alone. Of course, Armitage had no choice but to obey, unable to bear the agony of refusal. King Brendol had beaten him until his back was littered with bruises.

Only Armitage’s mother had guessed at what truly happened. She had stormed into King Brendol’s chambers, and Armitage had hidden, and listened. That was when he learned that his father was somehow responsible for this curse—the first time Armitage had heard it described as such—and that he held no compunctions about hitting Armitage’s mother, too.

Armitage learned other things from the ordeal. He learned not to trust his brother or any of his brother’s friends. He learned to listen to what people did not say, as well as what they did. He learned to spot the telltale look in a person’s eye that warned they knew his secret. And he learned to spend long hours in the library, searching for a way to break the curse. Armitage grew into a careful, quiet young man, content to be overlooked in favor of his boisterous older brother. He abhorred attention, because for the most part it meant disaster.

When he was fifteen, his mother fell ill and passed away, and with her went the only true ally he had ever known. Armitage retreated into his grief, and came close to despair. It was only by chance that he met Ben Organa, prince of Alderaan, who was part of a diplomatic visit and found him hiding in the library of the palace in Arkanis. Armitage did not know what made him give Ben a chance, when he had turned away all other possibilities of friendship. Perhaps it was merely desperation, or even self-destruction as he revealed the secret of the curse to Ben and waited for him to take advantage of it, as all others had.

He never did.

Instead, he listened to Armitage vent all the grief and frustration of a life held captive by others’ whims. Ben had taken Armitage to Queen Leia and explained everything in a rush, while Armitage had looked down at his toes, face aflame from all the unused-to attention.

It was not long before a deal was struck. An addendum to the terms of peace between Arkanis and Alderaan was that Armitage would come to live in the Organa household, as their ward and Ben’s companion. King Brendol had seemed relieved to be rid of him. The feeling was mutual.

Armitage discovered that Ben’s uncle Luke was a powerful mage. He made many attempts to break the curse, giving Armitage brief hope that he may know what it was to live a normal life. But all were in vain. Luke said that he would keep searching for an answer, but Armitage could tell that in his mind he had given up. It was still a better life, to be out from under his father and his brother’s thumbs, and to have found a friend at last in Ben.

Ben had a stoic sense of justice about him. From the start he took Armitage’s curse seriously, careful not to trigger it and only slipping up once when an argument led Ben to tell him to ‘go jump in a lake’. It was winter, and Armitage had barely made it back to the gates before collapsing. His fever lasted for three days, and he lost count of the number of times he told a crying Ben that it was alright, he knows Ben didn’t mean it.

Otherwise, life in the Organa household was good, far better than his lonely life back in Arkanis. Armitage never stopped being cautious, wearing suspicion like a familiar old cloak. But with Ben and Leia and even her consort Han on his side, Armitage could breathe a little easier, sleep better at night.

Still, he had resigned himself to this life, giving up on finding a way to break the curse, until he met Poe.

-0-0-0-0-0-

_I want you to know_

_I'm a mirrorball_

_I'll show you every version of yourself tonight_


	2. Chapter 1

Armitage can hear the revelry long before they reach the banquet hall. He casts a glance aside at Ben, catching his eye and giving his friend an amused look. Ben is nervous, though this is only evident because Armitage has been able to observe his moods for the past ten years. To anyone else, Prince Ben Organa of Alderaan looks the part of a stoic and serious young man, tall and broad-shouldered and handsome in his deep blue doublet, his raven hair combed into soft curls that brush his shoulders. But all Armitage sees is the cagey look in his eyes, the slight twitch in his jaw, the way his hands itch for his sword.

Armitage can sympathize. He feels naked without his rapier, the slender weapon—black-bladed, its pommel inlaid with gold—having been stored for return to him after the betrothal banquet. Of course, Armitage would never go anywhere truly unarmed. He has a knife in each boot, though if all goes to plan he certainly won’t have to use them tonight. No, tonight they are here to celebrate, and for Ben to join the other suitors in offering his hand in marriage to Princess Reyanna of Jakku. Armitage is looking forward to a night of good food and entertainment, and hopefully his friend will secure the engagement to the princess who had long since caught his eye.

“Relax, Ben.” Armitage nudges his friend’s arm as they draw to a stop before the doors to the banquet hall, beyond which Armitage can hear the barely-muffled sounds of music and dozens of boisterous conversations. “You’ll do just fine. She has no reason to choose other than you.”

Ben shoots him a look—his nerves turning his mouth down into a frown and gaze into a glare. Armitage shrugs, and then the doors are opening and a man in the red and tan livery of Jakku is ushering them in.

“Step forward, my lords, to be announced.”

Armitage’s feet snap him forward. His hands are clasped tightly behind his back, and long practice keeps the distaste at being ordered about from his expression. Ben, on the other hand, shoots a murderous glare at the man. He quails, evidently confused at what he’d done to earn the prince’s displeasure, and his voice shakes slightly as he calls out to the room:

“Prince Benjamin Organa of Alderaan. Prince Armitage Hux of Arkanis.”

The raucous conversation barely pauses, and soon the music swells again as Ben and Armitage make their way to a nearby table. A mix of Alderaanian and other lords and ladies, belonging to various vassal and ally states, have already formed a little bubble around two of the long tables piled high with fruit and fresh-baked bread and glazed meats. Armitage nods to a few familiar faces—the ever graceful Lady Amilyn, the stodgy old Lord Ackbar of the Mon Cala Isles. Luke, Ben’s enigmatic uncle, is a dark and brooding presence at the end of the table, but his sister is nowhere to be seen. Diplomatic duty had called Queen Leia away, and Armitage feels a pang of pity for Ben.

After making the rounds, Ben and Armitage excuse themselves from the group and wander over to a more lively gathering of unfamiliar faces. From their modest dress and the way they carry on, Armitage guesses that they are knights.

Two of them are engaged in an arm wrestle that Armitage supposes started out friendly but seems likely to devolve into blows among the spectators. Ben snorts, lifting his tankard to his lips. As they look on, one of the knights seated at the table starts shouting encouragement to the arm wrestlers. He has very dark hair that lies in thick, loose curls against his tan skin, and equally dark eyes that look lively above his full mouth. An orange and white cat with black leopard spots lounges at his feet beneath the table.

“I want winner.”

Armitage blinks, realizing that Ben had slammed his tankard down and taken a seat at the table while he had been preoccupied with the knight. Armitage moves to stand behind Ben, one hand held behind his back, the other clutching the tankard close to his chest. He’s never cared much for alcohol, preferring to keep his wits about him, but appearances demanded it.

It’s that very knight—the one with the dark hair and eyes—who laughs when Ben braces his elbow on the table and extends his hand to the winner of the last match.

“Don’t worry, Finn,” he says to the other knight who grips Ben’s hand with a look of determination. “He seems big, but I bet he’s soft.” Ben appears unfazed, but Armitage bristles. He swallows the first caustic reply that leaps to his tongue, instead favoring the knight with a cool gaze.

“Would you care to place a wager, then?” For show, he sips at his drink, eyes never leaving the face of the loud-mouthed knight. The man looks him over then, and breaks into a truly rakish grin. Armitage’s mouth flattens out into a thin line, annoyed that he can feel himself blushing at the attention. It’s rare that anyone looks at him this way, when he’s always at Ben’s side.

“Aw, well, I’m not sure I can match whatever a prince is used to putting down.” The knight blinks up at him, eyes wide, wearing fake innocence like an oily second skin.

“That is no matter. Put down your customary bet and I will match it, and we will see who walks away with the coin.”

Though this Finn is a worthy competitor, Ben comes out the victor, as Armitage had known he would. Ben’s natural size is backed by years of training, which he uses as an outlet for the frustrations that have plagued him since adolescence. Armitage smirks behind his cup. Finn is a good sport and offers to bring the next round of drinks to the table. When the dark-haired knight tries to hand over his coin, Armitage declines.

“You have more need of your coin than I do,” he says, and the knight laughs.

“You just love feeling superior, don’t you?” Somehow, he says it with such good nature that Armitage relaxes a touch.

“Yes. Very astute of you to notice.”

“Yep, that’s me. Astute is my middle name. Poe Astute Dameron, of Yavin.”

“Armitage Hux, of Arkanis.”

“Armitage.” The way Poe says his name makes Armitage stand a little straighter. It sounds good in that deep, rich voice. “Well, Armitage,” Poe slides over a tankard handed to him by Finn, “Take a seat, have a drink.”

Armitage’s feet move him toward the bench, but suddenly Ben’s hand lands on his chest.

“Don’t sit or drink unless you want to,” he says carefully, words calculated to free Armitage from the previous command without enslaving him to a new one. Ben glares at Poe and snaps, “Don’t order him around!”

“Oh,” Poe blinks. “Uh, sorry. Your highness.”

“It’s quite alright.” Armitage pats Ben’s shoulder, and takes a seat across from Poe. “I’m afraid I don’t drink much,” he says apologetically. Then, to change the subject: “I noticed your animal. Is it a pet?”

“He’s my familiar.” Poe grins, easily smoothing over the tension from a moment ago. “Beebee?” Poe leans down to look under the table. “Come say hi to Armitage.”

Beebee emerges from under the table to put his forepaws in Poe’s lap. He’s a large cat, well-muscled, with a torso nearly as long as Poe’s. Poe strokes him under the chin, and Armitage notices the plate armor that adorns the top of his head, curling around his jaw, and another piece fitted to his shoulders. Armitage raises an eyebrow.

“Is that decorative? The armor?”

“Not in the least. Beebee rides with me in battle. Don’t you, buddy? Got almost as many kills to your name as I do.” Beebee growls.

“Fascinating. How does a knight come to have a familiar?”

“It’s a long story.” For the first time, Poe’s cheer wavers, and Armitage knows not to press further.

The conversation develops from there. Poe is easy to talk to, vocal and congenial, moving from topic to topic smoothly. Armitage allows himself to relax, to a degree. He recognizes the flirtatious undertones to their back-and-forth, and he is amenable to them—Poe is a handsome man, after all. But these things have never been simple, for Armitage. He can feel Ben’s tense, protective stare, but if Poe notices it he doesn’t let it phase him.

When the time finally comes for the princess to hear the proposals of her various suitors, Ben looks like he’s ready to be sick.

“Good luck, my friend.” Armitage claps him on the shoulder. Ben nods, taking a deep breath as his turn comes and he moves to the middle of the room to make his offer. Armitage casts a glance aside at Poe. “Would you care to make another wager?”

“Fine.” Poe looks at Ben, then back at Armitage. “But this time let’s bet something you’ll actually accept. How about this—if your man wins her hand, you win a dance with me.”

“Oh?” Armitage chuckles. “You think that such a valuable prize to me? Alright, then. What do you get if you win, and she chooses another?”

“Why, I get a dance with you, of course.”

Armitage looks down at his cup, hoping to hide the smile he can’t quite suppress.

The last of the proposals are made, and Princess Rey stands to announce her decision. There is significant tension in the banquet hall as the conversation dies out. By all measures Jakku is not a wealthy kingdom, the deserts and scorching plains yielding few resources. However, the Jakku fighters are a legendary force and a boon to any army. Rey herself is rumored to be a fearsome warrior. She does not let the suspense linger—she announces plainly that she chooses Ben, and the delegation from Alderaan erupts into raucous celebration. Armitage joins the applause, then nudges a shocked Ben to stand and go to his betrothed. The band starts up a jig, and people begin making their way to the dance floor.

Poe releases a put-upon sigh that is very obviously fake.

“You win,” he says, pushing up from the table. “Imagine that.” He comes around to Armitage’s side and bows with one hand behind his back and the other offered palm-up. “You’ll claim your prize this time, your highness?” He looks up from under a fall of luxurious, dark curls, and winks.

“I believe I shall.” Even as he stands and takes the offered hand, Armitage tells himself that it’s not too late to put a stop to all this. He doesn’t normally let flirtations go so far. Poe would be disappointed at first, but have no trouble finding another partner. Yet, somehow, Armitage finds himself powerless in the face of Poe’s charms. He flushes scarlet when Poe immediately pulls him into his arms, drawing Armitage a few steps back so that they clear the tables and join the throng of other couples beginning the first dance of the night. Poe’s hand is warm—Armitage can feel it even through the black gloves he wears. His other hand is on Armitage’s hip, guiding him with a sure grip.

“I suppose I’ll allow you to lead,” Armitage remarks, “for now.”

Poe laughs. It’s a loose, easy sound that billows out from his chest, shaking his shoulders and lighting up his kind eyes.

“We’ll switch for the next song.” He smiles, and Armitage finds himself smiling back.

Poe is a good dancer. He’s light on his feet, moving confidently through the steps. The way he holds Armitage—his strength, his solidity—is almost overwhelming. Armitage very rarely allows anyone to touch him, and never for this long or this intimately. He feels a buzzing, lightheaded sensation, as if he’s been drinking. His feet hardly seem to touch the floor and it’s difficult to catch his breath—but not in a bad way. Not at all.

The wide circle they make around the dance floor eventually brings them near Ben and Rey. Rey is laughing at something, looking very beautiful and happy, full of life. Armitage glances at Ben, noting the way he looks at her, as one who is absolutely smitten. He can only hope that he does not look half so lost to Poe. As the two couples pass by each other, Ben tears his gaze away from Rey to shoot a dark look at Poe, and then raise his eyebrows in a silent question to Armitage. Armitage gives the barest shake of his head.

Poe spins him around so suddenly he can’t help a little gasp.

“He’s really protective of you,” Poe inclines his head in Ben’s direction. “Is there a story there? Some, ah…history, between the two of you?”

Armitage shakes his head. There is a story, of course, though not one he is going to divulge to Poe.

“No history,” he says, “not of the sort you’re implying, in any case. We have been friends since we were boys, growing up together as brothers. Ben is simply protective of those in his confidence. I feel the same towards him.”

“Well, that’s nice. It’s good to have a friend like that. Reminds me of me and Finn.” The song ends, and Poe keeps hold of Armitage’s hand while stepping back to give a little bow. He brushes his lips quickly across Armitage’s knuckles, and Armitage longs to remove the glove, to feel Poe’s lips against his bare skin.

Armitage struggles to gather his thoughts. The band strikes up another tune, and true to his word Poe lets Armitage lead. He’s responsive to the slightest guidance—Armitage has never experienced such singular attention. Poe is attuned to him, body and mind.

“You and Finn…” Armitage trails off as he happens to catch sight of the other knight, dancing with a small dark-haired woman. “Is there, as you put it, ‘history’ between you?”

“Yeah.” Poe smiles, looking chagrined. “Didn’t last long, though. I was younger and kind of a jerk.” Armitage snorts. “We’re great as friends.”

“Because you are less of a jerk?” Armitage spins Poe, revenge for earlier. He winds up with his face very close to Poe’s, their height difference making it easy to loom over him. “Or despite being one?”

Armitage expects Poe to laugh, but he doesn’t. His body sways towards Armitage, doe eyes blinking up at him before his gaze lands solidly on Armitage’s lips. Armitage smirks.

“Little bit of both, I think, if I’m being honest.” Poe swallows, and Armitage watches hungrily as his Adam’s apple bobs. His voice has gone low and husky. “Is that a problem?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Armitage closes the distance, letting his eyes flutter shut as he kisses Poe.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Armitage does not allow himself to want things. A good day is one in which he eats a satisfactory meal, trains in the yard, takes care of personal business, spends a few hours with his books. With all of his needs met, Armitage has learned to be satisfied with a quiet, if at times dull life. Sometimes there are bad days, after all. There are people who learn of the curse and take advantage of that knowledge; or a simple thoughtless command will take hold of him. He gets through it by telling himself that it will pass. Good days and bad days blur together into a life half-lived, a life that Armitage has trained himself to appreciate, never asking for more than that. He does not allow himself to want things, no—

But he does want Poe.

Oh, he wants him. The kiss is chaste, as anything else is unthinkable amidst the crowded banquet hall. But Poe’s lips are so soft against his, and the heat of his mouth is right there. Poe is immediately yielding and eager, tipping his head back and swaying forward, letting out a little ‘mmm’ that makes Armitage think unwholesome thoughts. Like, if he makes such a sound for a simple kiss, what other sounds could Armitage draw out of him?

The intense desire for Poe catches Armitage off guard.

His hand slips from Poe’s hip to the small of his back, holding him close. They’re no longer dancing; Armitage doesn’t hear the music, and he’s forgotten all the other people filling the banquet hall, the couples dancing around them. Poe looks up at him, questioning; then, a slow smile spreads across his face. Armitage is not used to people smiling at him. He feels weak in the knees, and considers excusing himself, telling Poe he is unwell.

It would be the smart thing to do. The _safe_ thing to do. So why can’t he do it?

“Hey.” Poe squeezes his hand, and Armitage blinks. “You alright?”

“Yes.” Armitage resumes their dance, guiding Poe into the next steps.

“What were you thinking about?” Poe tilts his head. “Regretting it already?”

“Of course not,” Armitage says, too quickly, and Poe laughs.

“Well. Neither am I, for the record.” The song ends just then, and the band starts up another feisty tune, their bard’s voice carrying easily across the hall as he coaxes the room to sing along to a baudy verse about a blacksmith’s daughter. “Say,” Poe has to lean in close for Armitage to hear him, coming up on his toes to speak into his ear, his breath tickling Armitage’s skin. “What do you say we find a quiet place, just to talk for a while?”

And oh, Armitage has heard that one before.

He plays with a wrinkle in Poe’s cream-colored tunic. Though he wants Poe, he does not trust him. It would be stupid to do so. Poe seems sweet, but so had many of the others, especially those who had asked for a moment alone with him, and then—

Armitage suppresses the urge to flinch at the memories.

“Alright.” He doesn’t know, in the end, why he decides to take a chance on Poe. As Poe grins and ushers him away from the crowd, Armitage consoles himself with the thought that, after all, he had taken a chance on Ben, and their friendship had changed his life for the better. And if it turns out that this is a mistake, that Poe is one of _them_ —

Then, well, all Armitage has to do is survive the night, put himself back together in the morning.

Before they make it very far, a strong hand lands on his arm. Armitage is unsurprised to turn and discover that it belongs to Ben.

“What are you doing?” He mutters, flicking his eyes to Poe.

“I have this under control, Ben.” Armitage pries Ben’s fingers away, shooting an apologetic look at Rey, who is standing just behind Ben. Armitage can see the gears turning in his mind, can almost hear Ben thinking, _is he being forced to say this?_ Armitage can’t find it in himself to be irritated at the over-protectiveness. This _is_ out of character for him, and Ben is right to be suspicious.

“Grimtaash,” he whispers, invoking the name of Ben’s childhood horse, their agreed-upon codeword for when everything is okay. Someone could command Armitage to say ‘everything is fine’ or ‘I want this’, but no one would know that Ben was waiting to hear that specific word. Ben purses his lips, clearly disapproving, but he nods and goes back to Rey. Armitage follows Poe to a vacated alcove, hidden from the rest of the room behind pillars. A tall window looks out on the dry plains of Jakku, far below.

Armitage is a bit embarrassed by Ben’s fussiness, and quite out of his element here. He folds his hands behind his back and turns to the window. He’s grateful that Poe doesn’t rush him, allowing him to gather his thoughts for a moment. Then, Poe comes to stand beside him, their shoulders brushing.

“This place is so different, from Yavin.” Poe leans against the wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“And what is Yavin like?” Armitage is again grateful, this time that Poe has opted for small talk rather than pressing for answers to the questions he can see lurking in those dark eyes.

“Humid. Swampy. Lots of tree cover. Green.”

“Alderaan is very green, as well. More temperate than Yavin, it sounds like.”

Poe cocks his head.

“Alderaan? I thought you were from Arkanis.”

“Ah. Well, yes. I have not visited my birthplace for many years.” Armitage keeps his hands clasped behind his back to stop himself from fidgeting. “But Arkanis is also very different from this place. It’s much colder, and it rains nearly every day there.” He is careful not to say anything that would lead to the topic of why he left. It’s frustrating that there is no way for Armitage to answer even simple questions about his life without hinting at the fact that at some point things had gone very wrong for him. “Did you come here by portal?”

Poe nods.

“Yavin isn’t important enough to have its own mage, but the council sent one to bring all of us from the Gordian Reach. Otherwise the journey would have taken weeks.”

“Ah, yes.” Armitage had not heard of Yavin, but he is familiar with the Reach. It lies far across the Continent in the Outer Rim—as does Arkanis, though in the opposite direction. Alderaan is in the bustling center, what they call the Core, and Jakku lies just outside the Core in the Inner Rim. From Alderaan to Jakku is barely a week’s journey; but to Yavin, nearly a month. Armitage does not know why his mind is so busy calculating distances. Perhaps he is comforting himself with the knowledge that on the morrow Poe will return to his homeland far away from Armitage. That _should_ comfort him, he tells himself.

“You’re so quiet,” Poe says, his own voice soft.

“At times.” Armitage flushes. “I am more used to solitude. Sometimes I get caught up in my thoughts. I apologize.”

“No apologies necessary.” Poe looks him over then, eyebrows knitting together in concern. “You’re tense. Tell me what’s bothering you?”

The slight upward lilt of his voice towards the end is not enough—it is a command. An unwitting one, but a command nonetheless.

“I’m afraid of how much I desire your company.” Armitage squeezes his eyes shut, biting his lower lip. He could not stop the truth from tumbling out any more than he could stop the beat of his heart. The urge to ask—no, _beg_ Poe not to phrase his requests as orders is on the tip of his tongue. But to ask such a thing would reveal too much. It’s much safer to suffer these little indignities while playing his cards close to the chest.

“Armitage.” Poe brushes the back of his hand along Armitage’s forearm. “I might not know the details—and I’m not asking for them, not now—but I can tell that you’ve been hurt before.” Armitage opens his eyes to cast a pained look at Poe, flayed open by his sensitivity, his candor. “It just makes sense. Your friend wouldn’t be so protective of you if that wasn’t the case. I know that I can be—a lot. Too much, sometimes. If you tell me to leave, I will. I won’t take it personal.”

“You are too much,” Armitage mutters. He swallows, and forces himself to meet Poe’s eyes. “But I—I want too much.”

“It’s okay to want things.” Poe turns to Armitage then, and puts his hands on Armitage’s waist. “You know that, right? It doesn’t make you stupid. It doesn’t mean you’re asking for trouble. Whatever happened to you—it wasn’t your fault.”

“You know very little about which you speak.”

Poe opens his mouth to respond, but Armitage shakes his head. He puts his hands on Poe’s shoulders and presses him back until he’s trapped against the wall. No more words. If they continue down this road Armitage won’t be able to keep from revealing his secret, but he can’t do that, because once Poe finds out about the curse it will all be ruined. Sooner or later he won’t be able to resist the temptation to use it against Armitage. So for now Armitage silences him with a kiss—hard and desperate, the line of his body flush against Poe’s, one hand slipping up to grip the hair at the base of his neck.

Poe sighs, relaxing into Armitage’s iron hold. Armitage cages Poe’s body with his own as their kiss develops far past the restraint they had shown on the dance floor. Armitage slips his tongue between Poe’s open lips and it’s—so much, too much. His entire body shudders.

He’s lightheaded again. He gasps, leaning into Poe, who squeezes his waist.

“I got you.” He pulls Armitage even tighter against him. Armitage worries, at first, that Poe will discover he is half-hard already—until he feels Poe’s answering arousal. Then, there is nothing to stop the soft moan that escapes with his next exhale. They move together, building a delicious pressure between them as they explore each other’s mouths. Armitage feels as though his flesh has caught fire, as if he’ll go mad if he can’t strip off his many confining layers that instant.

“Oh, man.” Poe grunts, and breaks away from the kiss, breathing heavily. “Gods, I want you. You have no idea.”

“I have some idea.” Armitage slides a hand down Poe’s chest and presses boldly against the front of his breeches. Poe sucks in a breath, tipping his head back. Armitage lunges for that stretch of exposed neck, sealing his lips over Poe’s pulse.

“Ohh. Um.” Poe’s eyes are shut, mouth open and breath coming in staggered gasps. He seems to lose his train of thought then, which is just fine with Armitage. He would hate to be the only one who has lost control. He rubs Poe’s erection through the cloth, drinking in those lovely sounds he knew Poe would make, until—

“Wait.”

Even without the curse, Armitage would be just as quick to obey such a command. He takes his hand away as if struck, pulling back to look at Poe with open concern.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. That was—I should not have—“

“Whoa, hey. It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Poe strokes his arm soothingly. “I’m just, ah, a bit worked up, you know?” He flashes a grin, somehow both sheepish and flirty. “Didn’t want to sit through the rest of the night after coming in my pants.”

Armitage is shocked.

“You—would have—?”

“Uh, yeah.” Poe chuckles. “Do you really not know how sexy you are?”

Armitage worries that his high, stiff collar will not be enough to hide the flush that spreads from his cheeks all the way to his chest.

“Gods, you’re so cute when you blush.” Poe draws him into an embrace. “You looked so cold and arrogant when I first saw you. But it doesn’t take much to warm you up, does it?”

“I…don’t know what to say.” Poe’s hair is tickling Armitage’s nose, but he doesn’t mind. He likes being held like this, though a low level of anxiety begins to build as he has no idea what Poe wants or expects of him. Should he reinitiate their intimate touching? His hands toy with the fabric around Poe’s hips, a question. Poe hums, then moves to turn Armitage towards the window. He hugs him from behind, arms threaded securely around Armitage’s waist and gathering Armitage’s hands in his own.

“You could tell me I’m cute, too.”

“You are.” Armitage looks out over the plains of Jakku, watching a dark bird cross the sky. He can feel the warmth of Poe’s body against him, Poe’s chin hooking over his shoulder. “You’re a very handsome man. You…caught my eye, immediately.” If Poe wants flattery, he’ll have it. Armitage has no problem speaking this truth.

“Same here.” Poe nuzzles into Armitage’s neck, making him shiver. “I really like your hair. Don’t see this color much in the Reach.”

“It’s common in Arkanis. Not so much in Alderaan and the other Core kingdoms, though.”

“Are you going back tonight? To Alderaan?”

Armitage swallows. His heart begins to race.

“No,” he admits. “We’ve been issued quarters, here, in the castle. I…have a room.”

Poe falls silent for a time. Armitage tries to use it as an opportunity to untangle his own thoughts, but they’re a mess of desire and fear.

“You’re tense again,” Poe says quietly. He squeezes his arms around Armitage as if to soften the blow of his next words. “I think I’m getting some mixed signals here, so I’m gonna back off. I’m not trying to push you, just getting a feel for what you want.”

“And what do _you_ want?”

“That doesn’t matter so much. I want whatever you’ll give me, but—“

“Don’t treat me like I’m fragile.” Armitage doesn’t bother to hide the ire in his voice. Ben treats him that way, as if with the slightest mishandling Armitage will shatter apart. Though it isn’t unwarranted, Armitage is tired of it. He feels as if he is on the cusp of grasping something truly great, here with Poe, like his blood is flowing his veins for the first time in years. Like he’s suddenly awake when he hadn’t even realized he’d been asleep all this time. He pulls decisively on Poe’s hands. “Let’s return to the banquet, for now. Then meet me in the entryway in an hour.” He turns around, Poe’s arms still circling him, and touches the side of Poe’s face. “I will show you I can handle myself. _And_ you, knight of Yavin. You said that I am allowed to want things. Don’t go back on your word.”

“Never.” Poe gives him one last squeeze, then steps back, hands trailing along Armitage’s arms until he finds Armitage’s hands and brings them to his lips for a quick kiss. “I’ll see you in an hour, then.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Armitage immediately seeks out Ben.

He is sitting at the high table beside Rey. Their hands are clasped together, resting on the table between them. Luke is sitting to Ben’s left, which Armitage is certain was not Ben’s idea. He and his uncle get on like oil and water, but both his relation to Ben and his position as Alderaan’s mage mean that his presence holds ceremonial importance. On Rey’s other side there sits the older woman who had taken over stewardship of Rey and the kingdom of Jakku when her parents died in a tragic accident during her youth. Jakku’s mage also sits at that side of the table, but Armitage pays them no mind. He approaches the table and bows before Ben and Rey.

“It pleases me to see you together at last.” Armitage straightens and clasps his hands behind his back. “Thank you for your hospitality, your Highness.”

“You’re most welcome.” Rey has the bearing of a queen, her voice solemn, but only with the air of matching Armitage’s formality. There is a distinct twinkle in her eye as she says, “Call me Rey.”

“Rey it is.” Armitage inclines his head.

“Will you sit with us? I’m sure we can make room. Ben has told me a little about you. Enough to know that he treasures your friendship, even if he won’t say it in so many words.”

“I have found that the more he cares for something, the less he speaks of it. Therefore, I have heard almost nothing of you.”

Ben rolls his eyes. Rey laughs, and squeezes his hand.

Luke stands up and gestures to his chair.

“I’m sure Ben would rather sit beside his friend than his boring old uncle.” When Armitage starts to protest, Luke waves it off. “I’ve been meaning to speak with the delegation from Hosnia. Please, Armitage, think nothing of it.” As he passes by he lays a hand on Armitage’s shoulder, giving him a solemn look. Luke’s gaze is always full of pity for him, even if it is deeply buried beneath his general sense of world-weariness. Armitage shifts, uncomfortable under that knowing gaze and unable to completely suppress his bitterness at Luke’s failure to help him.

Rather, not so much at the failure as at the fact that he had given up.

Armitage attempts to shake off the melancholy that Luke seems to carry with him like a fog, taking the seat beside Ben as servants clear away the remains of Luke’s meal. They place a fresh plate and cup of wine before Armitage, and he takes a long drink. Ben leans over and whispers, for the second time that night,

“What are you doing?”

Rey glances their way, but seems to sense their need for privacy. She turns to the woman sitting next to her, even while she keeps her hand tucked within Ben’s.

Armitage works on draining the glass.

“I’m taking the knight to my bed,” he says bluntly.

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“No. I’m doing it anyway.”

Ben makes a sound low in his throat. Armitage chuckles.

“I don’t need your permission, Ben. I’m simply telling you so you won’t stop us like you did earlier.”

Ben as the decency to look chagrined.

“I embarrassed you. I’m sorry for that.” Armitage waves it off.

“You were doing your duty, as my friend.” He looks down into his cup, frowning at how quickly the wine had disappeared. “But, Ben…I want this.”

Ben raises his eyebrows. Has he ever heard Armitage say those words? They feel strange in Armitage’s mouth.

“Then you should have it.” Ben still looks displeased, and Armitage can’t deny the nervousness fluttering in his own stomach. He fiddles with the cup, and then with sudden inspiration looks over to Ben’s betrothed.

“Rey?”

Rey finishes her conversation with the other woman and turns to Armitage with a sunny smile.

“Yes?”

“What do you know of a Sir Poe Dameron, of Yavin?”

“The knights of Yavin are an exemplary fighting force.” It’s a snappish, businesslike reply, stark and factual, as if ringing out over a drill yard or a war table. The shift in her voice is evident, and Armitage raises his eyebrows at Ben, who gives a pleased little shrug as if to say ‘I know’. “Their loyalty is without question, their skill in combat nearly unmatched. Jakku has gone into battle at their side for generations. Sir Dameron is one of the best. His battle record is expansive, and laudable.” The hard, regal glint in her eye is almost bloodthirsty. “In fact, I have plans to petition the council to assign a mage to Yavin, so we may strengthen our ties even further.”

Ben looks fit to bursting with pride. Armitage allows a beat to pass, then with a small, apologetic smile, he clarifies:

“That’s all very interesting, princess. However, I meant to ask what you know of Poe Dameron’s…character.”

“ _Oh._ ” Rey blinks, and laughs lightly. “He’s a good man.” The certainty in her voice does something to calm Armitage’s nerves. “Trustworthy. Kind. Comes off as a bit of a cad but it’s all for show.”

“That was my estimation of him, as well.” Armitage nods. “I’m glad to hear it was not unfounded.”

Rey holds his gaze for a moment, one eyebrow arched. Then she winks.

The rest of the hour passes amiably. Armitage’s nerves grow bit by bit, until he’s fidgeting in his seat, eyes flicking across the banquet hall. He could still call it all off, but he doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to. He wants Poe but he can’t shake the feeling that something is going to go wrong, as it so often does.

He excuses himself at last, bowing to Ben and Rey once more as he takes his leave. His palms feel damp under his gloves as he makes his way towards the exit and his heart is beating furiously. Maybe Poe won’t even be there to meet him. Maybe Poe realized that Armitage comes with too much baggage, will need too careful handling, be too much trouble to bother with. Maybe—

Armitage exits the banquet hall and there Poe is, waiting for him in front of a deep green tapestry, depicting woodland scenes—all the things the people born in Jakku would never know, but perhaps have some innate desire to surround themselves with, the coolness of a forest glade and the rush of water over glistening rock. And all of Armitage’s nerves are briefly washed away as Poe smiles at him, takes him into his arms and kisses him and whispers for him to lead the way.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Armitage considers the room he was assigned to be fitting of his station, even if it lacks the dark elegance of Arkanis castle or his open, airy chambers in Alderaan. When he shuts the door and turns to look at Poe, the knight waggles his eyebrows.

“Fancy,” is all he says before Armitage is on him. Fingers sliding into his curls, tongue sinking into the velvety heat of his mouth. Poe hums in appreciation, and Armitage feels the knight’s hands moving over him, caressing his sides and sliding down over his hips. Poe’s hands are just starting to make their way around to cup his ass when suddenly Poe freezes, lips going still against his.

“You taste—“

_Good_ , Armitage thinks feverishly. _You taste so good, tell me I do too, tell me that you want me._

“—like wine.” Poe pulls back, and when Armitage opens his eyes he sees Poe frowning up at him. “I thought you said you didn’t drink?”

“Not usually. But tonight is an unusual night.”

Armitage tries to resume the kiss, but Poe stays just out of reach. He looks up at Armitage with wide eyes, full of concern and maybe just a touch of hurt.

“Is that really what you needed to do, to be with me?”

“What?” Armitage blinks, feeling off-balance. “No, it isn’t like that at all. I was nervous, and wanted to be less so.”

Poe reaches up to brush a thumb over Armitage’s heated cheek.

“Are you drunk?”

“Gods, no.” Armitage feels a twinge of anxiety that after everything, Poe will be the one to call this off, all because of a stupid mistake on Armitage’s part. “I only had one glass, and half of another.” He frowns. “I don’t understand. I did…wrong?” Everyone drinks at these events, often to excess. Normally Armitage is the odd one out, abstaining in order to keep his head.

But his head is such a difficult place, sometimes.

“No, you didn’t do wrong.” Poe’s gaze softens, and he lifts Armitage’s hand to kiss his gloved palm. “Let’s just sit down for a minute.”

“Alright.” Armitage lets Poe lead him to the bed. They sink down onto the soft mattress, knees brushing and Poe holding Armitage’s hands carefully in his own.

“Armitage,” Poe says, their hands gently cradled in his lap. “I don’t want to do anything that makes you nervous.”

“But I _want_ —“ Armitage starts, then breaks off with a frustrated huff.

“It’s okay if you’re not sure.” Poe brings Armitage’s hands to his mouth, speaking the words into them like a solemn vow. “I will do whatever I can to please you. Whether that means we go forward with this, or we stop now, or at any point in time. You know that, right? You can tell me to stop at any time, even if you asked for it, even if you liked it up until that point?”

Armitage’s head swims. He wants to tell Poe that that’s not how this goes—that Armitage is never the one handing down commands, but he keeps his lips pressed together and he nods instead.

“Good. And another thing. If you just want me to hold you tonight, we can do that.” Poe looks at him, earnest and heartfelt. “If you want, we can lay down with all of our clothes on and I’ll hold you close, and stroke your hair, and we don’t have to do anything else. Does that sound like something you want instead?”

Armitage doesn’t have the breath to respond, which prompts Poe to continue.

“I don’t want you to think you have to earn that kind of intimacy by doing other things, things you might not want to do.”

“I want to do—other things.” Armitage swallows loudly. “I would like—both, yes.”

Poe’s smile is brighter than a solarium on a cloudless day.

“Okay then,” he says quietly, “I’d like that, too.”

Poe starts plucking at the black gloves, until one becomes loosened enough for him to slide it slowly off, finger by finger. Armitage’s breath quickens as he watches, entranced by the careful concentration Poe shows for this simple task. When the hand is free and Poe turns it over to stroke the palm with his thumbs, the brush of skin against skin sends a harsh shiver through Armitage’s body. It’s been years since he’s allowed anyone to touch his bare skin.

Poe seems to know it, too. He glances up, a smile working at the corner of his mouth as he lifts the hand to blow a long, warm breath over it, chasing that sensation with the barest brush of his lips—and Armitage is wrecked. He breathes heavily, face flushed with more than the wine he’d had earlier, body leaning towards Poe as he is wracked with shivers, every touch sending lightning through his nerves.

“Too much?” Poe breathes the question into his palm, and Armitage gives a fervent shake of his head.

“ _No._ ”

Poe presses his smile into Armitage’s hand, as if Armitage could close his fist and hold it there forever. Then he loosens the clasps at Armitage’s wrist so that the sleeve can be pushed up, and moves his attention to that length of pale forearm, somehow even more sensitive than his hand when Poe kisses the pulse hammering beneath his paper-thin skin.

“Gonna take care of you,” Poe murmurs. One hand holds his wrist securely while the other finds it place on Armitage’s chest, sliding into the fold of his tunic and starting to undo the long row of buttons with deft twists of his fingers. “Gonna make you feel good. You want me to make you feel good, Armitage?”

“ _Yes._ ” Armitage speaks each word with the desperation of a man on trial, like his fate hangs in the balance of each feverish declaration. His head is blessedly empty of everything but the sensation of Poe’s lips against his skin, Poe’s hand sliding into his tunic and over his thin shirt. Poe shifts closer, reaches up to undo the fastening at Armitage’s neck, and groans as he falls forward to nuzzle at the soft skin there, that has so rarely seen light.

“Gods, you’re gorgeous.” Poe’s words set Armitage trembling, and he lifts his own hands to grasp at Poe, uncaring of where or how, uncoordinated where Poe is lethally precise. His attempts to remove Poe’s tunic are fumbling, and Poe chuckles, breathy and sweet. “You first.” He pushes both hands into Armitage’s tunic and it slides off of his shoulders and down his arms, shucked off like an oyster giving way to one skilled twist of a knife. Soon his undershirt follows, tugged over his head, and then Poe is gently coaxing him back against the pillows, holding him all the way and following him down with an endless rain of soft kisses on his neck and chest.

Armitage’s hips cant up when he feels Poe fingering at the edge of his breeches.

Poe sits up, and Armitage is not quite successful in holding back a petulant little whine as he feels the cold of Poe’s absence. Poe laughs again, and Armitage thinks that Poe is the only one who has ever laughed so much around him, and in such a way that Armitage never once feels as if he’s being laughed at. Poe removes his boots and it’s a decadent feeling, to lay back against the pillows and stare up at the dark fabric hanging above the bed while Poe undresses him, even for a prince like Armitage who is used to all manner of nice things.

He is quite in trouble, that this one night with Poe is the nicest thing he has ever had, as he can feel the cusp of its end already. Their eventual parting hangs on the not-so-distant horizon, but Armitage shoves the knowledge of it aside as roughly as he can any of his intrusive thoughts. If their time together is to be so brief, then he is determined to live in it, completely.

And it’s easy to forget those errant thoughts when Poe returns to him, having removed his own tunic so that his chest is bared for Armitage. He knows his eyes are wide—can see it in the way Poe smirks, flexes a bit, preening under the appreciative gaze. Armitage doesn’t care. He lets himself look, and lets Poe see him looking, and reaches out with trembling fingers to brush over the smooth curve of his pectorals, down to the defined abdominal muscles.

Poe had called him gorgeous, but Armitage withdraws his hand as he wonders what the other man could possibly see in him when Poe himself looks like— _this._

Poe kisses him before he can think too much about it.

His hands move back and forth over Armitage’s ribs and chest and stomach, caressing him and slowly stoking the fire in his belly that demands more. Armitage can feel himself growing desperate, kissing Poe sloppily as he hungers for more, spurred on by the little _sounds_ that Poe makes that drive him wild. Armitage thinks of them as little kitten noises, mewls and gasps as he nips at Armitage’s mouth.

“Can I…?” He toys with the edge of Armitage’s breeches again and Armitage surges up to meet him with a frantic kiss, nodding and fumbling for Poe’s, wanting to rid them both of these last vestiges of confining fabric. Any modesty he may have had evaporated the instant Poe laid his careful hands on him, looked at him with such open, harmless desire. And the moment when they are finally both naked, miles of skin pressing against warm skin, Armitage can only tip his head back and breath through the waves of feeling crashing over him.

He should not, can not, _does not_ love this knight, and yet, he thinks, he must.

“Oh, Armitage.” Poe rolls over so that his body covers Armitage’s, and something within Armitage sings at the feeling of being shielded, held down and protected, hidden from sight within Poe’s arms. “What do you like?”

“I…” Armitage is caught off-guard by the question, blinking against the suddenly too-bright light of flickering torches that illuminate the room in their warm glow. The truth is that he has never really liked anything done to him during his previous sexual encounters, nor any of the things he had been forced to do. But he had never felt the way he does now, with Poe—hot and aching, mesmerized by every inch of Poe’s skin, hanging on every moan and gasp. He means to come up with an answer, any answer, but all that comes out is a hesitant: “I don’t know.”

Poe pulls back, eyebrows drawn together into a question.

“Is this your first time?”

“No!” Armitage huffs, blushing hard.

“Oh.” Several emotions flicker across Poe’s face, too quick for Armitage to recognize. He thinks there’s sorrow there, and he’s ready to bristle at it, to remind Poe that he does not need to be coddled—but then Poe kisses him, starts touching him in all the ways that make him want to climb out of his own skin and into Poe’s.

“Don’t worry,” Poe breathes, husky into his ear. “I got you. I have an idea.”

He reaches over and produces a bottle of oil from somewhere. Whether it was thoughtfully included as a room amenity by Armitage’s hosts, or came from the small leather bag Poe wore at his belt, Armitage doesn’t know. All he knows when he sees it is what is about to happen and he thinks, _maybe it will be good this time, with Poe._

He’s willing to find out.

But instead of slicking up his fingers or his own cock, Poe brushes his knuckles through Armitage’s fire-red curls and asks,

“Can I touch you here?”

“Yes,” Armitage breathes. And of course he’s already hard for Poe, has been more or less since their kiss behind the pillars overlooking the harsh Jakku plains and completely, achingly so since Poe undressed him and touched him and kissed him. Poe pours the oil into his palm and his first slide along Armitage’s cock knocks the breath from his lungs. His thighs twitch with the effort to keep himself still, and as Poe kisses him one hand fists in Poe’s soft curls, his fingers flexing along with his abdominals as Poe strokes him again, and then again.

Armitage moans, low and soft in his throat, and his breath catches as pleasure begins to build in his stomach. He realizes he’s shaking only when Poe snakes a hand beneath his shoulder blades, cradling Armitage with one strong arm while the other hand continues its slow, delicious strokes.

Poe’s mouth is against his. Armitage remembers the fact after a long moment of losing himself to the feel of his cock in Poe’s hand. He had been simply breathing into Poe’s mouth, their lips touching but still, as if Armitage would breathe for the both of them. He closes his lips to swallow, tongue darting out to wet his lips before he opens for Poe again. Poe licks into him and Armitage can’t take it, the building heat below and the trail of sparks left by Poe’s tongue. His next moan sounds more like a sob as he quivers in the other man’s arms.

Poe’s grip on his cock loosens, pressing down flat against the shaft and then moving up to press into his belly.

“Here,” he whispers, “Think you’ll like this.” He turns around then, and Armitage blinks as Poe opens his legs and situates them so that Armitage’s cock is lying against Poe’s thigh. Armitage scoots up, seeking Poe, his warmth and his shimmering touch, clinging to him as Poe pulls his hands around so they are flat against Poe’s stomach, Armitage’s chest pressed to Poe’s back. Then Poe closes his thighs, trapping Armitage’s slicked cock between them, and gives a little squeeze.

Armitage can’t help it. He thrusts into it, back arching and eyes closing, and Poe murmurs encouragement.

“That’s it. Just do what feels good.”

“I—“ Armitage strives for words, but there’s nothing other than Poe and the seeking heat inside of him. He moves, shifting so that his cock drags against the inside of Poe’s thighs and it’s good, so good. He clings to Poe, fingers digging in to his stomach as he thrusts carefully, hesitantly, shocked to silence by the bright spark of pleasure. This is so much more than he had ever hoped to feel—it’s _good_. His thoughts crack apart around that single realization.

Armitage’s fingers are soon hooked onto Poe’s hips, pulling Poe back as he thrusts forward, unthinking and making little animal grunts as he starts to rock back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm. He has the wherewithal to slide his hands towards Poe’s cock—which has been hard this whole time, and must ache as Armitage’s does, and isn’t it his job—isn’t he supposed to—?

But Poe pushes his hands away and takes himself in hand, moaning as Armitage relents and simply focuses on chasing his own pleasure. He can feel his edge approaching and he rushes towards it, his stomach slapping against Poe’s ass as he thrusts frantically, the drag of his cock between Poe’s thighs a perfect, delicious pressure that soon milks his orgasm from him. Armitage comes, gasping and shaking and clutching at Poe like he’s the only mooring that can secure him against the storm of sensation sweeping through him. It seems to go on too long, far longer than when Armitage rarely takes his cock into his own hand seeking release, wave after wave of ecstasy slamming into him. His leg twitches, back arching into the pleasure, and he has to force himself to drag in a long-delayed breath when he finally sinks back into his body.

He realizes that Poe is moaning and gasping his name, and lifts himself up to watch with hunger and curiosity as Poe brings himself off. Armitage opens his mouth with the sudden, urgent need to consume Poe, and settles for sucking on the swell of his shoulder, tonguing at the sweet skin while Poe catches his breath.

Armitage closes his eyes. His world narrows to the taste of Poe in his mouth, the feel of him beneath his fingers, his warm weight in the bed beside him. It takes him a moment to realize that Poe is speaking to him, almost drowsy with a contentment he’d never known.

“—good for you?”

“Poe.” Armitage is offended by the question. “I’ve never felt—“ He stops himself, sighing into the little wet mark he’s made on Poe’s shoulder. He drops his head, pressing his forehead to Poe’s shoulder blade. “Thank you.” And whatever comes next, he’ll take it. He prepares himself, mentally, for Poe to turn over and take his pleasure now—to enter him like the others had, and thinks he probably will enjoy it this time because he feels so good right now, and how lucky he is that Poe decided to make him feel good first.

So Armitage has no idea what to make of it when Poe simply turns around and pulls Armitage into an embrace, snuggling up to him and burying his nose in Armitage’s hair. Poe’s cock is limp, the tip wet with come, but still Armitage blinks, confusion furrowing his brow as he slowly returns the hug.

“Do you need to—?” He trails off, thinking Poe will finish the thought for him, but Poe just makes a little questioning _hm?_ It begins to dawn on Armitage as he asks—voice hesitant and small, now, embarrassment worming its way in—“Are you…satisfied?”

“What?” Poe chuckles, and fluffs Armitage’s hair. “Of course I am. I loved that. I love what we did together.” He noses into the space between Armitage’s neck and jaw. “I mean, if you wanted to do more later, we could.”

“Oh.” Armitage finally, truly relaxes then, melting into Poe’s arms. Poe must feel it, because he gives a happy sigh and holds him all the tighter, and the two of them drift in a silence that is as companionable as their conversation had been.

In their post-coital haze, Armitage has the audacity to think that this went so much better than he had expected. That he was a fool all along for fearing this, that Poe didn’t deserve his wariness or Ben’s overprotective glares. That here, with Poe, the curse cannot reach him. Armitage’s past cannot reach him.

But, of course, he has always been easily fooled by fate.

He rolls over and makes to leave the bed to retrieve water for the two of them.

“Nooooo,” Poe whines, pulling him back down and mashing his lips against Armitage’s in a playfully uncoordinated kiss. “I’ll get it. Don’t you move a muscle.”

And Armitage’s heart stops, mid-beat.


	3. Chapter 2

Armitage thinks he can hear Poe calling his name, somewhere far away.

Every muscle in his body is locked up tight. It’s excruciating; Armitage would scream, if he could draw breath to do so. It feels as if there is a lead weight pressing down on his chest. His eyes are fixed on Poe’s terrified face; he could not look away if he tried. Though he finds, as the seconds pass—time slowed down to an agonizing crawl—that he does not want to look away. Poe’s expression goes from confused, to horrified, to panicked as time wears on, and Armitage watches the changes coming over the other man with an almost lazy detachment.

When he loses control of his body like this, he retreats into his mind. It makes the pain tolerable; it passes the time. Though, now, time seems to be ticking down to some final resolution as his lungs empty of air and darkness fills the edges of his vision. He has never been tugged right to the precipice of death by a command before. It would almost be interesting, if it weren’t so sad. Mostly Armitage is sad for Poe. Poe hadn’t meant to do this, and Armitage wants to smile for what they’d had, wants to tell him that it’s not his fault. But, of course, he cannot move.

Poe is shaking him now. Armitage’s limbs are stiff, unyielding. Pain flares in his neck as frozen muscles hold his head at an unnatural angle. His vision swims, everything going fuzzy and indistinct. He’s being sucked backwards into a yawning void and he thinks that this is the part where his eyes would roll back in his head and his eyelids would flutter shut, if they weren’t frozen into a death stare by Poe’s unwitting command.

Just before the darkness swallows him, Armitage sees the terrible understanding dawn in Poe’s eyes.

“You can move!” Poe shouts, gripping his shoulders. “Armitage, you can move!”

Armitage collapses onto the bed as if dropped from a great height. The weight lifts from his chest and he sucks in a breath as sound and light and awareness of his own limbs all rush back in to fill his head fit to bursting with sensation. At first he jerks away when he feels Poe’s hands on him; then, he succumbs to a fit of tremors that wrack his body. He curls into the mattress, clawing at nothing.

Dimly, he’s aware of Poe gathering his shaking body into rock-steady arms. Armitage feels weak as a lamb, arms limp and head rolling loosely until he comes to rest against Poe. He struggles to catch his breath while his teeth chatter from the harsh shivers driven by adrenaline and panic and the cold touch of air against his sweat-damp skin. Eventually, his mind falls back into order, slotting sensations into their proper place: Poe’s hands on him, one pressing against his chest just over his heart. Poe’s voice, an urgent whisper.

“Breathe. Just breathe.” Poe’s eyes widen. “I mean—ah, fuck it,” he mumbles. “What am I supposed to say, ‘breathe if you want to?’ This is so fucked.” He sighs and slips a hand up through Armitage’s hair, murmuring soothing words, encouragements. “That’s it. You’re alright.”

“You, ah—” Armitage swallows, blinks. His vision is slowly clearing, the lightheadedness fading as his breaths slow from desperate pants to deep inhales that he holds, relishing the feel of sweet air filling his aching lungs. “You figured it out.”

“Figured it out?” Poe sounds shaken. “Well, I guess. It must be some kind of curse, not that I have much firsthand experience with such things, but—Armitage, why didn’t you  _ tell  _ me? I could have killed you.”

Armitage swallows, tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth.

“If I had told you, you could have done much worse than that.”

The breath punches out of Poe with a pained sound, like he’d been slugged in the stomach.

“So you have to follow every command you hear?”

“Every one directed at me, yes. Even if they are not intended as such. The curse can be very…literal.” Poe nods, petting Armitage’s side absentmindedly as the pieces fall together for him.

“Now it makes sense. The banquet, when I told you to sit—the way Ben reacted, I thought he was just being fussy. A knight talking to a prince like that—but it was more.” Poe’s expression crumbles. “You would have had to do it. And I—oh, gods, Armitage. Did you even want to do what we did?” Tears well up in those earnest brown eyes. “Or did I—“

“Shh.” Armitage lifts a hand, pressing his thumb to Poe’s lips. “I wanted it. I brought you here under my own power. You did nothing wrong, and I see now that I should have told you from the start. Forgive me. I could not shake the fear that you would be like the rest—commanding me to open my mouth for you, or lie on my stomach and not make a sound. I am a coward, Poe. I was afraid.”

Poe makes a low sound in his throat, almost like a growl.

“ _ No.  _ Gods, Armitage, you must be the bravest man I’ve ever met. I’m so sorry that happened to you and—if Ben hasn’t already done it, I’ll kill those men with my bare hands.” 

Armitage says nothing. Talk of killing exhausts him, as vengeance does nothing to erase the scars left by those men, on his body or his mind. Poe crushes him into a hug. “How long have you lived like this? What happened?”

“I was a—willful child.” Armitage grimaces. “As the second son, I was to wait quietly in the wings. Obedient, not seen or heard unless summoned. Or so my father believed. I think I was four when my father employed a dark mage who promised him an obedient child. I was told his name was Snoke, but have not found any record of such a man. He left my father’s court not long after placing the curse upon me.”

“Your whole life,” Poe says slowly, shaking his head. Anger flashes in his eyes and Armitage can hear the edge of a sword in his voice as he says, “If I ever meet your father—“

“You won’t. I have nothing to do with him, have not since I was fifteen and met Ben.”

Poe nods. He doesn’t look satisfied, but he holds his tongue, if only for Armitage’s sake.

“Ben has been a good friend to you, then? He’s not—?”

“I owe Ben my life,” Armitage says, fiercely. “He is a true friend, and you can be certain when I am at his side it is quite willingly.”

“Okay.” Poe strokes a hand soothingly down the side of Armitage’s face, knuckles brushing softly over temple and cheek and chin. “You’re still pale. Do you need a healer?”

“I’m fine.” Armitage sighs. “I’m sorry I disturbed such a pleasant evening.”

“It’s not your fault.” Poe kisses Armitage’s nose. “The rest of the evening can still be pleasant, as long as you don’t try to die on me again.”

“I’ll endeavor not to.” Armitage lets himself sink back into the pillows. Poe is a comforting weight beside him, holding him down with one arm slung protectively across his chest. Armitage finds himself drifting off, quite unintentionally. He blinks, trying to rouse himself, but Poe makes a shushing noise.

“Go ahead and rest,” he murmurs. The rest of his words sound far away, coming to Armitage as if in a dream. “I’m going to protect you, Armitage. I promise.”

And Armitage doesn’t even mind when Poe shakes him awake a moment later, babbling apologies because he commanded Armitage to rest. Armitage smiles sleepily at him, burrowing into the warmth of his chest, forgiving him with one breath and falling back asleep with the next.

  
  


“When can I see you again?”

Poe is holding both of Armitage’s hands. Behind him, Beebee sits on the haunches of an impressive stallion that Poe calls Black One. The Jakku sun is relentless, heating up the black leather of Armitage’s gloves. Many of Poe’s fellow knights of the Reach are shielding their eyes, bloodshot and hungover from the night of revelry and eager to be off. Magic hums in the air around them. Two mages are holding open a massive portal, shimmering black and silver in the air, mounted men beginning to filter through. Poe is going with them, back to Yavin. Armitage doesn’t want to let him go.

“You have your duties, Sir Dameron. And I have mine.” Ben will need help consolidating his and Rey’s rule. His friend hasn’t always had a head for logistics, which Armitage happens to be quite good at. He leans in and gives Poe a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll send a raven.”

“I’ve never really been good with just words.” Poe’s dark eyes are sad as he squeezes Armitage’s hands. “I’ll miss you.”

“And I, you.” Armitage tears himself away before he loses the courage to do so, giving in to the urge to cling to Poe. “We’ll meet again.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Take care of yourself, Armitage.” Poe nods, then turns and swiftly mounts Black One. The harsh sunlight glints off his steel, at shoulder and hip, the bright pauldrons and hilt of his sword. He sits proudly with his warrior cat behind him and determination in his eyes, and Armitage is knocked breathless by the sight.

And when Poe turns and rides away with the rest of his delegation, disappearing through the portal, it feels right. Because there is no earth on which Armitage is meant to keep something so wild and beautiful and good as Poe.

Armitage sends a raven from Castle Alderaan the next day, standing on the balcony of the rookery to watch it take wing. Part of him expects Poe not to respond. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. Armitage has learned not to expect anyone to think of him except when it is convenient, and Poe does not seem the type to suffer the inconveniences of long-distance correspondence. And yet, part of him hopes.

Not a week later, he receives a reply.

From the very first line, Armitage smiles as he reads:

_ Dearest Armitage, _

_ Finn’s lady Rose has helped me write this letter. Putting my feelings on the page was harder than I anticipated, and my spelling is “atrocious” (her word, not mine—because I couldn’t spell it without her help). I think she’s lost patience with me since this is my third attempt to write to you. _

_ Armitage, I think about you all the time. I miss you as intensely as if we had known each other for years instead of just one night. One night wasn’t enough. Not for me, at least. I miss your hair. _

Armitage has to put the letter down, squeezing his eyes shut as he laughs.

_ Rose says that’s a strange thing to say, but it’s true. I miss the way your hair felt sliding through my fingers, how soft it was against my face, the way it smelled when I held you. And I miss your smile, and your laugh, and the way you always seemed surprised that you were laughing. I want to make you laugh, again and again, until it doesn’t surprise you anymore. I want to make you happy. _

_ I’m going to find a way to help you. (Rose won’t see this part—sorry for the errors.) No one deserves to live this way, leest of all you. I know Ben is looking out for you and you can take care of yourself but still I worry about you constantly. I know you wouldn’t want me to write about it sence ravens can be intersepted, so we’ll just have to meet again. Just tell me where and when and I’ll come to you, Armitage. I promise. _

_ My hand hurts from writing. How do people do this? I don’t think I’ve said enough but I also don’t think I could ever say enough. My feelings for you are stronger than those I’ve known for anyone else. I hope that doesn’t frighten you. (It frightens me, a bit, but in a good way.) _

_ I hope to see you soon. _

_ With tender affection, _

_ Poe _

Armitage keeps the letter at his bedside and reads it so frequently the parchment wears thin.

  
  
  


Winter comes to Alderaan, and with it the rumblings of war.

A dark force has conquered several kingdoms of the Mid and Outer Rims and now it presses upon the outlying vassal states of the Core kingdoms; Coruscant and Alderaan and Chandrila, Jakku and Hosnia and a dozen other holdings fortify their borders, draw their allies close and prepare for the war to come.

A pitched battle will be fought, here on the snow-swept plains of Alderaan. Ben and Rey have already reached out to legions of fighters from different corners of their united kingdoms; Armitage accompanies them as they ride now to the site of the future battle, taking in the lay of the land in a final midnight hour inspection. 

They are also to meet the knights of the Reach here, as they come through a portal to join the forces massed at the foot of the castle’s walls.

Snow lays heavy upon the land, their horses snorting great clouds of steam into the frigid air. Armitage huddles beneath his heavy cloak. The only part of him that feels warm are his hands in their fur-lined gloves—the rest of him has not been warm for months. He thinks fondly of his brief time under the sweltering sun of Jakku.

Rey and Ben have been murmuring quiet words to each other since the three of them set out from the castle, their horses crowded close. Now Rey urges her silver mare to crest the hill; her hard-eyed gaze sweeps over the future battlefield and her lips move as she murmurs something to herself. Armitage looks to Ben.

“The road is clear. Our supply lines can run this way—“ he indicates with an outstretched arm—“along the gorge, providing a natural defense on one side. It’s a good spot, as good as any.”

“Hmm.” Ben’s gaze is dark, mouth twisted into a frown. “I still think it’s too close to the castle.”

“We have no choice,” Rey cuts in, trotting back over to them. Her cape sweeps down over her mare’s flanks, shimmering silver and grey. Her chestnut hair is gathered into a bun at the nape of her neck, cheeks flushed with the cold. “The emperor employs mages, just as we do. We cannot leave the castle defenseless only for them to portal in a legion of Praetorians behind our backs.”

“She’s right, Ben.” When Ben glowers at him, Armitage shrugs. He has never been intimated by Ben’s seething looks, and neither has Rey. Alderaan’s sulky crown prince has found himself quite outnumbered since marrying the strong-willed princess. “It will be close, but we have the advantage here. If we can tire out their magic users their supply lines will wither. Their soldiers will starve, if our superior fighters have not slaughtered them by then.” Armitage is suspicious of this easy victory, but Ben and Rey are not stupid—they don’t need him to point out that there may be some unforeseen trap lying in wait. All three of them know it, but are at a loss as to what to do to further prepare for the unknown.

The crackle of magic in the air cuts off their discussion. Their horses whinny in fright, pawing at the ground. Rey has to bring her mare around in a sharp circle to calm her, her horsemanship as neat and controlled as any knight’s. Magic has a taste, Armitage has found—or, it’s closer to a taste than it is any other sense, the metallic tang in the air as a portal begins to open in the snowy field below. The air blurs, and then a dark rift appears, swirling and growing larger and larger until three horses could ride through it abreast.

Armitage’s hands tighten on his reins, the cold leather creaking. 

He has been anticipating this day for quite some time, but now that the hour has dawned he finds an unpleasant anxiety gripping his stomach. He’s grateful that he had declined breakfast that morning. 

The first of the knights begin to emerge from the portal. They keep their horses to a brisk walk in order to avoid disorienting them, and from this distance they are an indistinguishable mass. Soon the air is filled with the distant rumble of hooves, the clank of armor. The banner of the Gordian Reach snaps in the crisp air. A sharp  _ crack  _ resounds as the last knights cross over and the portal disappears in a blink.

Armitage finds himself scanning the ranks, looking for the black stallion, the spotted orange-and-white cat, the dark hair—

“He’s down there,” Rey says, softly, yet Armitage still jumps. He looks to the side, and his cheeks grow hot as he realizes that Ben and Rey are watching him. 

“How do you know?” There’s probably no point in denying that Armitage’s mind is wholly preoccupied with the knight from Yavin.

“I can feel him.” Rey looks out at the field, gathering her reins. “He’s looking for you, too.” With that, she touches her heels to her mare’s sides and the silver mount leaps forward into a canter. Ben is quick to follow, while Armitage is several beats behind, thrown off balance by the interaction. He knows that both Rey and Ben possess some magical talent, but they usually keep their abilities and training separate from him—perhaps out of respect for his unsavory personal experiences with magic. This is the first that Rey has spoken openly of one of her talents, and Armitage feels exposed on Poe’s behalf. And surely, if she can feel Poe searching for Armitage, she must know how desperately Armitage wishes to see Poe.

He shakes his head, urging his horse to follow his friends down into the shallow valley.

He arrives as Rey and Ben pull up their mounts and trot out to meet the commander of the battalion, a hard-eyed man with a full beard accompanied by a squire holding the banner of the Reach. Armitage attempts to conceal his impatience as they exchange formal greetings, but his horse must sense his nerves, for the chestnut mare dances in place, tossing her head. Poe is not among the first ranks, and as Ben and Rey turn their horses towards the castle he resigns himself to not seeing Poe until they arrive and the knights set up camp—a process which would take hours, at least.

His mare falls into line on Ben’s left, the crunch of snow beneath hooves all Armitage hears as they set off for Castle Alderaan, until—

“Armitage!”

“Poe?” Armitage whirls his mount around, breathless and uncaring that it is a breach in protocol. The sight of Poe cantering towards him washes away everything else, the dozens of eyes upon them, the glare of the commander and the murmuring disapproval as Poe breaks formation to come to him.

Beebee bounds through the snow on the heels of the dark stallion bearing the knight of Yavin. Black One tosses his head and he and Armitage’s mare circle each other as their riders spout breathless greetings.

“So good to see you, Armitage—“

“I thought you might not come, I’ve been waiting—“

“—my last raven—“

“—no, there have been delays, some say—“

“The empire, isn’t it? Kriff, should’ve known—“

“But you’re  _ here. _ ” Their horses finally settle, and Armitage finds himself smiling at Poe as they come to a halt in the middle of the snowy field with the company riding on past them. 

“Of course I’m here.” Poe guides Black One closer, until their knees are almost touching. He reaches out and the first brush of his fingers along Armitage’s jaw sends a shiver through him. Poe’s fingers are warm, somehow, like he still carries the sunshine of Yavin within him. “I couldn’t wait to see you again. It’s been too long.”

Armitage nods, speechless under Poe’s attention. He still can’t believe this man sees anything in him worth returning to—but he must. The months have passed so slowly since their night together at Rey’s betrothal banquet, and despite their letters Armitage realizes he has half-convinced himself that Poe must have moved on. The fact that he didn’t, that he’s here, that he’s looking at Armitage like he’s the only thing that matters—

Armitage is quite close to losing his head.

“The castle,” he says at last. He swallows, taking the reins up into his hands and urging his mare into a brisk trot that Black One easily matches. “Would you like…to stay with me?”

“You’re asking if I’d rather stay in a warm castle, in the quarters of a handsome prince, rather than alone in a cold, wet tent in the midst of a camp full of cranky knights?” Poe chuckles. “How could I say no?”

“Your commander will not be cross? I’ll speak to him, if you wish.”

“Eh, I’m not worried about it.” Poe waves a hand, brushing the concerns aside easily. Armitage smiles. Everything feels easier when Poe is around—obstacles dissolving before his quick hands and calm smile, his gaze always so steady as if to say there is nothing to worry about, nothing that can’t be handled. Armitage would be envious of it if it didn’t feel like Poe’s easy way with the world extended to him when they were together, like he’s been drawn under the veil of a different life and his own problems become distant, piddling things.

“I’m to attend a war council when we reach the castle. I’m sure you’d like to rest—you can do so in my chambers.” Armitage looks aside, away from Poe’s roguish grin as his cheeks heat up. He expects Poe to tease him, and wouldn’t mind—would suffer almost anything as long as it is in the guise of Poe’s attention—but instead the knight is earnest.

“I’d like nothing more than that.”

  
  
  


They ride through the castle’s gate and stable their horses, and Armitage leads Poe into the place he has called home for the past fifteen years. Their boots are wet with melted snow and leave a trail of puddles behind them as they enter the keep. Beebee tags along at Poe’s heels, gaining interested looks from the several servants and other residents of the castle that they pass on their way to Armitage’s chambers. Castle Alderaan is airy and sunny during the summer months; now, in the depth of winter, all of the windows have been covered over with heavy cloth to insulate against the cold. There are also signs of preparation for the impending battle—fortifications being made against the grim possibility of siege.

“My rooms are up here,” he says, unnecessarily, as he leads Poe up a flight of stone stairs. He’s nervous, but in a good way. He wants Poe to approve of all of this, for some reason—wants to impress him, even though he knows that Poe is not one who needs to be impressed by such things. Poe looks charmed, though it is probably less so by their surroundings than by Armitage’s nerves. Armitage takes the stairs quickly, almost jogging, like he’s a boy again, racing Ben through the castle. Poe laughs, and keeps up.

At last, they come upon Armitage’s suite of rooms. He takes Poe to the bedroom, first, since it is the most comfortable for relaxing after a long journey. As he pushes open the heavy oak doors, ornately carved with figures out of Alderaanian mythology, Poe lets out a low whistle.

“You sure you want me in here?” He steps tentatively across the threshold, standing off to the side with an uncharacteristic hesitancy. “This is, uh…”

“Come now.” Armitage’s cheeks are aflame, suddenly, as he turns a more critical eye on the rooms he has occupied for the past fifteen years and has clearly taken for granted. “It’s not all that much…”

Well, yes, the balcony that stretches from one end of the room and into the adjoining salon does look out on an impressive view of the Alderaanian mountains into which the castle is built. And the rooms are spotless, having been recently seen to by the servants assigned to Armitage’s needs. The furniture is all expertly crafted from the highest grade materials, silverwork glinting here and there, dark wood polished to a mirror gloss. But really, all Armitage sees when he walks into the rooms is an oasis of peace and calm. A place where he can shut the doors and shut out the world.

Poe is looking around as if he’s stumbled upon a mountain of gold.

He strides across the room, making straight for that breathtaking vista and placing a hand on the stone wall as if to steady himself. Armitage tilts his head, taking in the lines of Poe’s body, the breadth of his shoulders and curve of his thigh. His dark hair stands out marvellously against the bright snowy backdrop of the mountains, and Armitage comes up behind him, reaching out to touch--

But he’s still wearing his gloves. Armitage draws his hand back and peels them off, tucking them into his belt and then gently touching his fingertips to Poe’s shoulder.

“Armitage, this is beautiful.”

“No.” Armitage shakes his head. “You are.” 

Poe half-turns toward him, and Armitage looks down at him intently, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other sliding up the back of his neck until his fingers come to rest among the soft curls. His own voice sounds foreign to him when he speaks, low and deeper than usual, as if the words hold some magical quality that could bind this man to him.

All of the words they had exchanged over their months apart come flooding back to him. Armitage had looked upon the sky with such longing, such excitement as he’d never known before. And even that had paled in comparison to how he feels now, felt upon first seeing Poe on that snowy field. Like everything has come to life around him--himself unstuck from his moorings, that had kept him bound to a life barely lived.

“This is just a room.” Has Armitage ever spoken words before that were as true as these? “Those are just mountains. I hardly even see them when I’m here. And now, only you--”

His voice catches, and Armitage closes his eyes. He tilts his head so that his nose presses into Poe’s hair. His memories could never faithfully recreate the scent, unique to Poe, that fills his senses with remembered warmth and safety.

“I think I could learn to love the world,” he whispers, “so long as you are with me, and I can see it through your eyes.”

“Armitage.” Poe turns fully towards him, back to the mountains now as his arms circle Armitage’s waist. He nuzzles his way in until his lips find Armitage’s in a sweet, slow kiss. “Oh, love,” he murmurs, then stiffens. Unmoving in Armitage’s grasp. “I mean--if that’s--”

“ _ Yes. _ ” Armitage doesn’t even know what question Poe meant to ask but he knows that there is only one answer, could only ever be one answer for this man. He shivers as Poe’s hands skate up his back, the touch still so much more than he is used to even through all of his winter layers. “Love. My love.” Tears spring unbidden to his eyes as Poe suddenly crushes him to his chest, and Armitage goes willingly, leaning against him because he is the only solid thing in the world. “You are.” They kiss again, and again, and yet Armitage cannot stop himself from pulling way, muttering against Poe’s lips, broken from the revelation. “How could you be anything else?”

As their kiss turns passionate and the declaration settles in like a warm animal curling up in its burrow, Armitage does not find that he is surprised at the depths of his feelings for Poe. Rather, the shock is that he would be allowed to have this at all--that it could fall into his lap so easily, and be  _ reciprocated  _ no less. Poe has no reason to love Armitage the way Armitage loves Poe, that much is obvious. Poe lights up the world as he moves through it; Armitage has only ever cast the shadow of his curse upon those who do not deserve its complications, its demands.

And yet, Poe had said it first. Had called Armitage “love”, as if it came naturally to him. Armitage groans when Poe licks into his mouth, and allows Poe to walk him back until Armitage’s back is pressed against the wall. Armitage dives his hands into Poe’s hair, the curls just as soft and thick as he remembered, sliding luxuriously between his fingers. And Poe, everywhere, kissing along his jawline, down his neck, Armitage tilting his head back and panting as his body responds to Poe’s touch, passion igniting in his veins.

Then, Armitage gasps, his hands scrambling at Poe’s shoulders to push him away.

“The council!” His eyes fly open, and Poe laughs at his startled expression. “I must go.”

“Must you?” Poe leans in for another kiss, slow and teasing, giving Armitage plenty of time to lift a hand and press his fingers to Poe’s lips.

“Indeed.” He traces the curve of Poe’s upper lip with a thumb in a brief goodbye, then wriggles free. His clothes are mostly intact but he knows his hair has already been mussed up by Poe’s touch, and he coaxes it to lay flat again, hoping that the blush in his cheeks and other signs of his arousal aren’t too evident. Surely, the front of his trousers will feel less constricting when he finally escapes Poe’s intoxicating presence. “Remain here, if you will. I’ll send someone to attend to your needs. Rest; I will see you soon.”

Armitage flees before he can succumb to the desire to skip the war council entirely and spend the rest of the day in Poe’s arms. Beebee surprises him, the large cat having curled up at the door and giving a long, high-pitched growl when Armitage nearly steps on him. The door is cracked, and Beebee stands with a languid stretch and then slides in past Armitage, flicking his tail against Armitage’s knees as he goes.

Armitage hastens to the war room. He passes by a liveried servant on the way and sends them to his quarters with the command to give Poe whatever he desires and to offer him things the knight may not realize he can ask for, unaccustomed to such luxuries as he must be. Surely, he would appreciate a warm bath after his travels, as well as a hearty meal while he waits for Armitage to finish with his duties to the realm.

The council itself is tedious. It is mostly Rey summarizing what she and Ben and Armitage had already discussed for the commanders of the various fighting forces and the castle’s garrison. Luke lurks somewhere in the background, his gaze sliding past Armitage in a way that sends Armitage’s memories back to when he had been just a boy--a puzzle that Luke had failed to solve. The same bad blood runs between Luke and his nephew. Armitage finds himself caught up in the old realization that one of the greatest tenets of his friendship with Ben is that they both know what it is like to have failed Luke in some way.

Queen Leia allows her son and daughter-in-law to lead the council, remaining silent in her seat of honor, stately in her dark grey robes and gleaming metal jewelry. But every now and then Armitage thinks he catches her casting a sympathetic look at him, and it only serves to stoke his need to get out of this room, where the past presses down on him with the relentless force of a rockslide. Leia can probably sense his discomfort, as she too is connected to the chaotic source of magic. Armitage knows all too well what it is to be the object of her pity.

The war council ends and Armitage flees, choking on memories.

Though Castle Alderaan has been a good place for him--far better than surviving under his father and brother’s heels back in Arkanis--sometimes it feels as if its walls are pressing in on Armitage. As if he is supposed to find some place here, but there is none, like he is a stone merely placed atop a wall instead of grounded with mortar, fitting in to the larger design. There is no clarity of purpose for him here. He supports his friend as Ben ascends to his place on the throne; he tries to stay out from under the pitying gaze of the Queen, the scouring looks of her brother. He holes himself up in his rooms, which now have a collection of books to rival even the main library. Retreating to the solace he finds in stories, secretly hoping to come across someone in the pages of a book who resembles him.

But now, when he opens the door to his bedroom, it is not only a book that awaits him.

“You’re back!”

Poe’s smile is the sun. It brightens the room, casts warmth on all the places within Armitage that have frozen over with old fears and longings. He’s pleased to note, as Poe stands swiftly from a chair beside the window where he had been seated in loose-limbed repose, Beebee curled up at his feet, that Poe is in the same clothes he’d worn to the castle. He had chosen not to bathe--could he perhaps have delayed, wanting to bathe with Armitage? The thought makes Armitage’s head light with giddy. But for the moment, Armitage needs to leave this blasted castle.

Poe’s arms circle his waist and Armitage has to step back to avoid being sucked in to an embrace he wouldn’t have the strength to fight. He takes Poe’s hand instead.

“Let us go for a ride.” He’s already tugging Poe towards the door.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Armitage lies. “I simply need some air. The war room is--” He shakes his head. “And I want to show you where Ben and I used to race.”

Poe nods, the smile returning like the sun sliding out from behind the clouds.

“Show me.”

  
  


They don heavy cloaks and gloves and set out from the castle. Black One and Finale--Armitage’s chestnut mare--had not been subjected to hard riding earlier, and feel fresh beneath them as they trot along the path leading in the opposite direction from the future battlefield. They ride through the sprawling camps of the army amassed to defend Castle Alderaan in the coming battle. The ring of blacksmiths striking anvils, shouts and conversations, horses whinnying all fills the air as much as the smoke from a hundred small cookfires. 

Armitage lets his mind go blank, focusing only on the way Finale moves beneath him, challenging himself to guide her with only the lightest touch of his heels to her sides. The reins in his hands are props; riding has always brought him great solace, almost as much as his books, and Armitage takes pride in his skill.

When he chances a glance back at Poe, he finds the knight looking at him appreciatively.

Beyond the last few tents lies a stretch of field blanketed in untouched snow. A forest looms on the other side of the field, the trees growing in a broad arc so that the edge of the forest abuts one of the castle’s walls off to the west. This is the field that Armitage and Ben had raced across in their youth. Armitage was the faster, always had been.

Unfortunately, the deep drifts of snow preclude the possibility of letting Finale have her head. Armitage urges her on to a slow, rolling canter, and Poe follows closely on Black One. The wind whips at them, pinkening Armitage’s cheeks and chafing the end of his nose. Still, he feels like laughing. His heart is so light he fears he might suddenly take wing, as the ravens do from the castle’s rookery, soaring over vast distances, the problems of the earth so far below as to escape their notice.

Of course, he would not mind so long as Poe came with him.

They come to the edge of the forest and bring their mounts down to a walk. Armitage easily seeks out the path into the trees that has been so obscured by snow as to be impossible to see, for any who had not spent their youth trekking through this land. Poe follows, and the silence of a forest muted by snow descends upon them.

Their horses’ hooves crunch in the packed snow. Icicles gleam from twisted branches, bare of leaves for months now. Evergreens are dotted throughout, giving some shelter from the wind, the scent of pine needles heavy in the air. Armitage can hear Poe’s sharp inhale and knows that he feels it, too--the fragile, cutting beauty of winter.

“Armitage.” Poe has drawn Black One up. His eyes are wide when Armitage looks back at him, turning Finale in a tight circle, the mare’s delicate feet stepping precisely despite the rough terrain. Poe swallows visibly. He looks almost--shaken, somehow, and Armitage’s eyebrows draw together in concern until Poe releases a long breath, that culminates in a smile. “I would like it if you came here.”

Armitage tilts his head, answering with his own careful smile.

“That is very precise wording,” he remarks, calm despite the frantic beating of his heart as he maneuvers Finale so close to the black stallion that his and Poe’s knees touch. 

“I’ve been practicing.” Poe reaches out, gripping the front of Armitage’s cloak. “No more mistakes, like last time.” He leans over, and Armitage meets him in a long, slow kiss.

“I…” Armitage considers his words, eyes closed and forehead pressed to Poe’s. “I would not be cross with you, if you did command me in simple matters. If it is easier to speak that way. I trust you not to abuse the privilege.” In truth, even the thought of Poe casually commanding Armitage in little things--telling him ‘come here’, ‘sit down’, ‘eat this’--causes Armitage’s stomach to tighten up in anxiety. But he does not want to be an inconvenience to Poe. He resents the thought of Poe having to be so careful with his words, instead of the carefree way he spoke before he knew Armitage’s secret.

“No.” Poe’s voice is firm, and it sends relief coursing through Armitage. “The privilege of being with you more than makes up for the slight inconvenience of having to consider my words. In fact, it’s probably good for me.” Armitage opens his eyes in time to see the rogueish grin. “You have no idea what kind of dumb stuff usually comes out of my mouth.” 

Armitage smiles, then laughs, pulling Poe close to him again, his shoulders shaking in mirth. He has never laughed so much as he does when he’s with Poe, and though it feels a bit strange--like he should have better control over himself, lest someone see or hear him--he doesn’t want to go back to the way things were before he met the dark-haired knight. Their next kiss lasts so long that Black One drops his head to nuzzle through the snow, looking for grass. 

Finally, Armitage pulls away. A little smile seems permanently etched on his features, and all the weight that had settled on him in the war room has evaporated like steam into the crisp air. 

They agree to ride for a little longer, as the shadows have started to make their presence known on the landscape. Armitage leads the way, nudging Finale down a modest hill towards an embankment. The river still flows beneath a thin sheet of ice. They follow the course of it for a little while, chatting against the backdrop of water gurgling and plinking against ice. Finally, Armitage leads them back to the path out of the forest. They canter across the field, chasing the dying sunlight and racing their shadows. They slow to a walk as they reach the edge of the camp, and by the time they pass the first few tents Armitage is already thinking ahead to the hot bath he’ll have delivered to his rooms. 

It’s difficult to ride abreast through the camp, the paths between the tents too narrow and winding. Poe and Black One have drawn a bit ahead of Armitage when suddenly three men step across the path, blocking his progress. Finale tosses her head and takes a step back before Armitage’s gentle guidance brings her under control.

They do not appear to be knights, such as Poe’s countrymen from the Reach. Rather, they might be from one of the other fighting forces, a nation that had conscripted peasants to make the quota set by Alderaan for the coming conflict. Indeed, they do not wear the professional armor of knights, or hold themselves with the same comportment.

“Good day, sirs,” Armitage says, tilting his head while his eyebrows thread together in puzzlement. “Please, step aside so I might pass.” Had they mistaken him for one of their commanders? Perhaps they have some gripe with their rations, or a fellow soldier? In any case, it is certainly no concern of Armitage’s.

“Shut up,” the middle one snaps.

Armitage’s mouth seals shut, and his blood runs cold.

The other two men are looking at the one who spoke with open fear, their postures poised to flee. But as the seconds tick by and Armitage makes no rejoinder, their expressions resolve into satisfaction. One of them cracks a smile, and the other chuckles outright.

“Looks like you were right, Tommel.”

“Course I was.” The man who’d dared command a prince sniffs, crossing his arms. “Told ya, one of Ebrina’s cousins works in that castle. Always talked about the cursed prince.” Armitage notes the greedy look in his eyes, and as he was only instructed not to speak, he looks up, searching vainly for Poe. “Course, I didn’t believe it myself for a while. But here he is.” The man’s words seem to come from far away. Finale shifts beneath him, and Armitage lifts his arms, ready to spur her on to a gallop even if these men are in the way--

“Stop!”

Armitage freezes.

“Dismount and stand still.”

Armitage swings a leg over the saddle, cursing internally when his feet hit the ground.

It’s over. Whatever they want of him, he’ll do. This Tommel knows how to control him and Armitage recognizes that look, the look of a man giddy with sudden power. The ability to command a prince--it should only be the provenance of kings, and yet this lowly little man now holds Armitage’s life in his palms, and he knows it.

Tommel strides over to Armitage, grabbing his chin and dragging him down to meet his gaze.

“You got a pretty mouth.” Tommel sneers. “Almost like a woman’s. Bet you’re used to using it like one, too.”

Armitage cannot speak, but he can funnel every ounce of hatred he has ever felt for his abusers into an animalistic snarl, baring his teeth. Hopefully, if his mouth seems less inviting, Tommel will not think it worth the risk.

“You don’t scare me, princeling. See, here’s whats gonna happen. We’re gonna go in that tent and you’re gonna suck me and my mates off, one by one, so we can all say we’ve had our pricks in royalty. And you’re gonna  _ thank  _ us for the privilege, and then you’re never gonna speak a word of this to anyone.” Tommel brings up his other hand to pat Armitage’s cheek. “If you do real good maybe I’ll let you go without bending you over. Even though I’d love to see what you looked like split open on my cock. Bet I could make you beg for it, even without the curse.”

Gods above, this man loves to hear himself talk.

Armitage finds himself without recourse. Locked in place by the man’s last command, he can only wait for this to all be over--

But then, of course: Poe.

At first, Armitage mistakes the thunder of hooves for the sound of his own heart pounding.

Black One releases a furious cry as Poe hauls him to an abrupt stop and leaps from the saddle. There is no sword in his hand, though there is one at his hip. He sets on Armitage’s attackers with the fury of his fists instead.

Tommel rips his hand away from Armitage’s chin as the shouts ring out, and Armitage longs to reach for the daggers in his boots. But his arms feel as if they are bound to his sides, his feet stuck in place. He needs to help Poe, even though he has never been very good in a fist fight, far more adept with his knives--but then, Armitage feels anger surge in his veins, and knows he would not regret killing these men, or leaving them with serious wounds. 

Of course, he’s still trapped in place, under that blasted man’s last command to stand still.

Thankfully, the men are not armed, and Poe is more than capable of handling even three of them at a time. He grabs one of the men by the back of the head as he charges at Poe, and spins, using their combined momentum to throw him into his companion. There’s a sharp  _ crack  _ as their skulls meet, and the two drop to the ground.

Then Poe whirls, and flings himself onto Tommel.

His knuckles are bloody by the time others from the camp arrive to investigate, Tommel lying unmoving on the ground. An officer strides up and hauls Poe off of the man, and Poe stands, wiping blood from his upper lip.

“These men attacked the prince!” Poe breathes heavily from his exertion, while Armitage’s legs feel weak from the relief of seeing him mostly unharmed. Poe strides over to Armitage and whispers fiercely, “You are released from whatever commands they gave you. Move and speak of your own free will.”

Armitage’s shoulders sag briefly, as if the curse had been holding him up.

Then, he straightens his posture, running a shaking hand through his hair and clenching his fist in an attempt to gain control of himself.

“Thank you,” he whispers aside to Poe, before putting his hands behind his back and striding over to the officer standing above the three prone men.

Armitage explains that the three men set upon him, coming up with a quick excuse as to why he had dismounted and endured their harassment without raising the alarm. Something about believing they needed his assistance until the moment he realized they meant him harm--Armitage barely registers the words coming out of his own mouth. 

“What would you have me do with them, my lord?”

Armitage shrugs. Now that the adrenaline has faded, exhaustion comes in its stead. He wants nothing more than to go back to the safety of his rooms and curl up in Poe’s arms.

“I leave that up to you. I must be going now.”

“Of course.” The officer gives a short, sharp bow. Armitage nods and goes to Finale, taking her reins and leading her up the path.

Poe comes to his side, lays a hand on his arm. Armitage can only give him a small, fleeting smile. Then he mounts Finale and sets off for the castle, Poe and Black One at his back.

A flurry of emotions press upon him. Despite his weariness, his heart leaps into a frantic rhythm at every sudden movement as they pass through the rest of the camp, and his fingers shake. All he can do to keep hold of the reins is to clutch them in a death grip. He realizes only when they come up to the castle’s entrance that he has been staring at a fixed point ahead with a blank, unseeing gaze.

The reinforced door swings slowly open, admitting them to the courtyard. Armitage guides Finale over to the stables and dismounts, keeping his back to Poe. He feels heat suffuse his cheeks, an uncomfortable squirming sensation in his chest, and he realizes he is  _ embarrassed.  _ Which is perhaps a silly way to feel, but it nonetheless is there, taking hold of him and causing him to fail to meet Poe’s concerned gaze.

Normally, Armitage stables Finale himself. He rubs her down, brushes her out, sees to her food and water, cares for her saddle and bridle, oiling the leather and storing them neatly where they will not get dusty or tangled. But today he finds himself standing there holding her reins and looking into her dark eyes and not knowing what to do. As if he hadn’t done it before a thousand times.

Poe comes to his rescue, yet again.

He finds a stablehand to care for Finale and Black One, and coaxes Armitage to leave with him. Armitage hesitates, but in the end the thought of hiding from the world is too great a temptation. He feels like he’s fleeing something as he lets Poe lead him away, out of the stables and across the courtyard and up the stone stairs to the keep. 

The next thing he knows, he’s in his rooms, the door shutting softly behind him.

Armitage goes to the chair by the window and collapses into it, holding his head in his hands. He hears Poe crossing the room with quiet steps, then feels the warm weight of his hands on his shoulders. His grip is strong as he starts kneading at the knotted muscles, digging his thumbs in to the join between Armitage’s neck and shoulders. Armitage groans.

A sequence of muscles unlocks, all the way from the top of his spine to just above his tailbone. Relief floods him and he sags back into Poe’s touch. His neck feels loose, like it never has before, the muscles growing warm and pliant under Poe’s ministrations. No one has ever touched him like this--Armitage wouldn’t have allowed it. He’s speechless, both from the wave of relaxation that has subsumed him and the realization that this type of pleasure even exists. He feels as if Poe’s hands are working away every worry he’s ever had.

Poe’s breathe tickles his ear as he leans down to whisper,

“I was gonna ask if you’re okay, but I guess that’s a stupid question.”

“Not stupid,” Armitage manages. Poe doesn’t stop the massage, and Armitage’s head is too full of the pleasant buzzing sensation suffusing his limbs to string together a proper sentence. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Poe drops a kiss to the top of his head. “You’ve never had a massage before?”

“I have not.” Armitage opens his eyes. His rooms are dimly lit, the torchlight shining in the puddles left on the flagstones by his and Poe’s snow-covered boots. “But that is not all I was thanking you for.”

Poe’s grip tightens, and Armitage imagines he can feel his anger. But it doesn’t frighten him, because he knows that Poe’s anger is only ever roused in his defense.

“You don’t have to thank me. For any of it.”

“But I do.” Armitage lets his head fall back, blinking up at Poe. “You do not have to stay.” The words sting his throat, but they’re necessary. “I know that I am a burden.” Hadn’t Poe’s letters admitted as much? That he worried constantly for Armitage’s safety? Wouldn’t it be best to cut him loose now, so he might go back to the carefree way in which he lived before Armitage had invaded his life?

“Stop.”

Poe’s hands slide from his shoulders, and he comes around the chair to face Armitage. Armitage sucks in a surprised breath when Poe kneels before him. 

“You are not a burden.” He takes Armitage’s hand, peels off the glove and flings it aside so he can caress Armitage’s numb fingers. “I meant what I said. I  _ love  _ you, Armitage. I probably shouldn’t, given how brief our time has been together, but I do. I feel it, here.” He puts a hand over his own heart. “You have already carved out your place inside my very soul, and you didn’t even mean to do it.”

“I don’t know what to say.” All of his awareness has funneled to his hand, to the points of contact between his skin and Poe’s. “You know I feel the same.”

“I know.” Poe’s smile is radiant. “And that makes me so happy. Would it surprise you if I said I know how you feel? At least, partially. It has to do with how I gained my familiar, Beebee. If you’d like to hear it.”

“Of course.” Armitage is eager to learn all he can about Poe, and a secret little joy sparks to life inside of him at the thought that Poe wants to share something intimate about himself with Armitage. Poe nods, and seems to gather himself, taking a deep breath before he begins.

“When I was a young boy, my mother died.”

“Oh, Poe.” Of course, Armitage can relate. “I’m so sorry.”

“You may know of her, actually. My mother’s name was Shara Bey.”

“Your  _ mother  _ was Shara Bey?” Armitage sits forward, his eyes alight with bookish excitement. All the stories he’d ever read come flooding to the forefront of his mind, until the words are tripping over each other in his eagerness. “The legendary warrior, expert marksman and equestrian? The woman who could stand on a galloping horse’s back and fire an arrow with an aim so true it would pin a fly to a board by its wings, without killing the fly?”

Poe is laughing by the end of it, and Armitage feels his cheeks warm in something close to embarrassment, though not unpleasant.

“The very one. Although some of those stories have been exaggerated.”

“Oh. Of course.” 

“You’ve got the gist, though. She was smart, and fearless, and ever since I could remember I have always wanted to be just like her.”

Armitage’s heart aches for the lovely man kneeling at his feet. He can almost see the boy in Poe: dogging his mother’s heels, swinging his toy swords and declaring he will defeat all evil. 

“One day she went off to battle, and...she didn’t come back.” Poe’s voice is pitched a little high at the end, but it’s steady. He shrugs. “I never thought it could happen. I knew she faced danger, but...she seemed invincible to me.” He releases a heavy sigh, and then in a gesture that melts Armitage’s heart, he lays his head on Armitage’s thigh. Armitage immediately threads his fingers through the thick curls, stroking his thumb along Poe’s scalp.

“Her death shattered my world. My father is a wonderful man, but he could never be her. No one could. Her absence was a dark void that nothing could fill. Even as the years passed, it didn’t stop the hurt. I ached for her, like I’d lost a part of myself. When I grew into an adolescent I was--rebellious. Out of control. I felt like no one understood me, like I didn’t understand  _ myself.  _ I didn’t know if I even wanted to be a knight anymore. One day, I ran away.

“There was a forest by our home, one rumored to be full of dark magic. I don’t know if that’s true. I didn’t even care to find out at the time, I just wanted to run headlong into danger because I thought that that’s what she would do. I was wrong, of course, and stupid as teenage boys are. But I did find something there--a light drew me in to where the trees were thickest. And there, I found a pool--”

He pauses, and tilts his head so that he can search Armitage’s face.

“I’ve never told anyone this before.”

Armitage finds his hand and squeezes it, then lifts it to press his lips against the knuckles.

“I thought I heard singing, or whispering. Something moved in the water and it was shining, a white light. Like the moon. I crept closer, suddenly convinced that if I looked down into the water I would see her there--that she might need my help to get out. But all I saw was my own reflection. I was horribly disappointed. The singing faded and I felt more alone than ever--and that’s when I heard a tiny little mewl.” Poe chuckles. “Beebee was hidden beneath a rock beside the water. When I reached in and drew him out, I saw--he has a marking, right here.” Poe rubs his chest. “It’s covered by his armor. But it’s the sigil my mother wore.” Poe’s voice grows thick, and if his face were not buried in Armitage’s lap he knows he would see tears. “I could feel her, there with me. I took Beebee home and I just--knew, that he was sent by her, to help me. So I wouldn’t feel so alone.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Armitage says, into the pensive quiet that falls after Poe finishes his story. Poe nods, and squeezes Armitage’s knee.

“I know that your life has been full of undeserved hardship. When you say you feel like a burden--I know that feeling. I felt it for so many years, when I would do nothing but worry my father with my behavior, when I felt like I was nothing more than some leftover piece of my mother’s legacy that was failing to live up to expectations. So believe me when I say that you’re not a burden, Armitage. The world has failed you, and sometimes you need help. I’m thrilled that you trust me to stand beside you, and I promise.” He looks up at Armitage with fire in his dark eyes. “We will find a way to break this curse. I will  _ never  _ give up on you.”

And it’s pointless, of course. If there were any solution to be found surely Luke would have found it. He is not some second-rate pellar; he is, in fact, one of the greatest mages in the realm. And all of Armitage’s searching has not revealed any path forward that Luke failed to see. But he cannot take away Poe’s hope, would never want to see that fire smothered. Armitage leans forward and kisses him, because he has no words worthy of this moment.

“Now,” Poe pats Armitage’s knees and stands. “Have you eaten today?”

“Er, no. I don’t believe I have.”

“Then first thing is first. Where are those servants of yours? Let’s get some hot food in you. Your fingers are cold.”

“They always are.”

“I’ll stoke the fire, meanwhile maybe you can get them to bring up a bath? I assume that isn’t too much for a prince to ask.”

“It’s not.” Armitage stands smoothly, smiling at Poe’s undaunted enthusiasm. All of his worries have quieted, settling in his mind like leaf litter on a forest floor. Still there but not swirling around him like they do sometimes, in a maelstrom of anxiety and indecision.

“Excellent.” Poe tugs Armitage towards him, their chests bumping together as he lays a quick kiss on his lips. “I’m going to take care of you tonight, Armitage. Just you see.”

  
  
  


The rest of the night is divine. The best Armitage can remember.

The servants are quick to answer his summons, providing a hearty stew and bread that had been kept warm for Leia’s own table. The queen often takes her meals at odd hours, which suits Armitage as well. He eats while Poe stokes the fire and oversees the men who carry buckets of steaming water into the adjoining room, filling the wooden tub. Armitage offers some of his food to Poe, and the knight eats a few bites but claims he is still full from the meal he’d been given while Armitage attended the war council.

When he is satisfied and all of the servants have left, he puts his utensil aside and follows Poe into the next room.

Armitage has bathed in this room more times than he can count. But he has never been in the small, dark room--filled, now, with steam from the hot water collected in the tub--with another person before. He watches as Poe begins to divest himself of clothing, eyes drawn to the smoothness of his skin, the curves of his muscled arms and the definition of his abdominals. Poe sees him looking and smirks; and though heat rises to Armitage’s cheeks, he doesn’t look away.

The openness, the  _ safety  _ he feels with Poe is like nothing he has ever felt before.

Quickly, and with none of Poe’s seductive charm, Armitage strips and follows him into the bath. He hadn’t even realized quite how cold he had been until his icy toes touch the hot water; he hisses, and has to ease himself in. Meanwhile, Poe slides into the water like he was made for it. Armitage wonders if this snowy, icy land feels as foreign to Poe as the heat of Yavin’s jungles would feel to Armitage.

They sit on opposite sides of the bath, facing each other. Of course the bath isn’t very large at all and this means that their legs are staggered, knees touching, thighs pressed against calves, ankles brushing hips. Armitage finds Poe’s hand beneath the water and holds it, relaxing back against the wall of the tub.

“This is very nice.” There are soaps and rags laying within arm’s reach, but Armitage is content to just sit here for a while. They can always add hot coals from the fireplace, if the water grows cold.

“I’m so lucky to be here with you.”

“No. I’m the lucky one.” Heat has started to curl Armitage’s fringe, where it falls across his forehead. He brushes it aside, staring intently at Poe, mesmerized by the flicker of torchlight in those dark-dark eyes. “I feel like I can be myself around you. For everyone else, I just--try to be what they want me to be. That’s why I was cursed at all, you know. I was supposed to reflect my father’s expectations. Now, I reflect everyone’s.” He tips his head back. “But not yours. I don’t even know what it is that you want. You seem to like whatever I already am.”

“That’s exactly it.”

“Ben is a good friend, but even towards him I feel a sense of obligation. He and his mother saved me. I owe it to them to be a good--whatever I am supposed to be. Not quite a son. A companion to Ben, Leia’s ward?” Armitage shakes his head. “They saved my life. I only want to do right by them.”

“I think...you’re expecting too much of yourself. They did what any decent person would do, and since they do seem to be decent people I think they probably just want what’s best for you. And that’s not hiding yourself, but letting yourself shine like I know you can. Remember at the banquet? Ben was afraid for you, but he still trusted you to go after what you wanted. He only wants the best for you, Armitage. You don’t have to try to be anything--you’re enough. Just the way you are.”

“Oh, my dear.” Tears prick his eyes. “I don’t think anyone has ever said those words to me before. I didn’t even know that I was waiting to hear them.”

Poe beams, and brings their joined hands out of the water to kiss Armitage’s palm.

They wash quietly, with Armitage taking over when he is gripped by the sudden desire to run the cloth over ever inch of Poe’s lovely skin. Sweeping over the swell of his shoulders and down his arms, across the planes of his chest. Poe watches him with those dark, smiling eyes, and coaxes Armitage to turn around and relax against him. Poe washes his hair, each stroke of his fingers along Armitage’s scalp sending sparks of sensation down his spine.

They kiss, and it is as sweet as their first had been, the warmth of Poe’s mouth more intoxicating than the mulled wine served in Alderaan during the cold winter months. Passion builds between them, sending water sloshing over the sides of the bath. Armitage slides into Poe’s lap, fitting as neatly there as he does in Finale’s saddle, rocking against Poe as he wraps a hand around his cock. Armitage comes with a whine, shaking in Poe’s grip.

He’s desperate to return the favor, until he opens his eyes and sees his spend in the water.

Poe’s brash laughter echoes in the small room, no doubt in response to Armitage’s scandalized look. He takes Armitage’s face in his hands and kisses him once more, quickly, before drawing them both out of the now tepid bath. They dry off and tumble into the furs of Armitage’s bed. Skin meets skin, sparking heat and passion between them, building slowly to a crescendo that has Armitage biting down on Poe’s neck in a fit of ecstasy, and Poe calling out Armitage’s name. 

Their touches turn to slow caresses as the night deepens, until finally they drift off in each other arms.

  
  


And awake to the sound of swords.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Poe’s reflexes snap him awake, and he leaps from the bed before Armitage can even blink blearily at the early morning light filtering through the tall windows of his bedroom.

Poe is half-dressed by the time Armitage flings the covers aside and untangles his legs. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, the sound of clashing swords and shouts echoing through the halls of the castle. He’s never heard such before--in all the years he has lived in Castle Alderaan it has never come under attack. At first he thinks it must be an exercise in the yard--perhaps a window was left open, the sound amplified by the crystal backdrop of snow?

He pulls on his trousers, boots and tunic, forgoing most of the buttons in his haste.

No. There are screams, now, and the pounding of many sets of feet as the servants flee to safety.

The door to his rooms is flung open and in an instant Poe rounds on the intruder, his sword drawn. Beebee leaps to his side, snarling at the poor man. Armitage’s mind stupidly focuses on the fact that Poe is still shirtless, before he shakes his head and shouts:

“No! Poe!” 

It’s only one of Armitage’s servants. The man is breathing heavily, and cowers away from Poe’s fiery gaze, the long sword gleaming in his hand.

“The castle is under attack, your Highness!” He directs his terrified gaze to Armitage, who finally finds his composure and strides over to the door, picking up his own sword from where it rested in its holder. 

“Where is the Queen? The prince and princess?”

“I know not. The intruders are between this portion of the castle and their quarters. We must be quick, your Highness, the servants’ entrance is still clear--”

Ah. The man means to lead them to safety. Armitage squares his shoulders.

“I’ll not abandon Ben and Leia. Poe, if you wish to go with him--”

“Of course not.” Poe looks at him like he’s gone mad. “I go where you go.”

“Very well.” Armitage hadn’t expected anything less, from the brave knight he’d fallen in love with. “This way. We must reach them before they’re overwhelmed, I’m afraid we don’t have much time.”

He would prefer Poe don his armor before engaging in battle, but time is not on their side. And in any case, Armitage is confident that Poe’s skills could outmatch any random band of brigands. He strides from the room with his rapier at his hip, then breaks into a jog. He knows Poe and Beebee are on his heels and doesn’t look back as he wends his way through the corridors, dodging servants fleeing in the opposite direction. The sounds of battle grow closer and closer, and he begins to see signs of it--

Ripped tapestries. Blood dashed against the wall. The bodies of servants, lying face-down, struck in the back as they attempted to flee.

Fury rises within him.

This is his  _ home.  _

How dare they intrude upon the one place he has managed to find solace in this world? How dare they threaten the people who had taken him in, a frightened and lonely boy, and sheltered him from those who would do him harm? How dare they interrupt the few moments he has to share with Poe, when distance and duty so often keep them apart? Armitage’s hand itches on the hilt of his sword.

When they round the final corner and come upon the scene, his blood runs cold.

Poe nearly slams into him, but all Armitage can do is whisper, eyes wide and riveted to the blood-soaked throne room:

“Praetorians.”

The Empire’s elite soldiers have infiltrated his home. They are all going to die.

Alderaanian soldiers lay strewn across the flagstones, their bodies twisted and broken. Ben and Rey fight back-to-back on the other side of the throne room, wielding sword and magic alike to fend off the red-armored attackers. And though they hold their own, defending the entrance to the Queen’s wing, more Praetorians pour out of a purple-and-black portal shimmering in the air.

And turn towards Armitage and Poe.

Armitage wants to tell Poe to run. This isn’t his home, these aren’t his people, this isn’t his fight. He could still make it out alive. But Armitage knows Poe, knows that he won’t abandon Armitage now, and dread solidifies into a cold acceptance of the fact that he is about to die beside his lover. 

Well. He will at least take as many of these Praetorians with him as he can.

Armitage draws his rapier, preparing to square off and fight back-to-back with Poe, ready to lay down his life to defend Poe’s blind spots. But Poe turns to him instead, and time slows to an agonizing crawl when Armitage sees something terrible in Poe’s eyes.

“Run,” Poe says.

Commands.

No. No, this can’t be happening, he can’t--

“Run, Armitage!” Poe swings his sword arm to fend off a blow from the closest Praetorian, and then he’s fully engaged in battle, his shirtless torso horribly vulnerable. One of the attackers slices at him, catching him across the chest, and a thick line of blood wells up.

Armitage can’t breath. He wills himself to ignore the command, forcing his feet to remain in place, but the curse burns from within, like his very marrow has turned into scorching rivers, his blood searing his flesh. He pants, reaching a hand out, painfully, to Poe.

“N-no…”

“Leave! I command you!” Poe blocks another flurry of blows, mouth in an open grimace, bellowing over his shoulder. “Run from the castle and don’t stop until you’re safe!”

“You can’t,” Armitage sobs. Poe can’t do this to him, he  _ promised _ .

Poe has no more time for words. Block, parry, counterattack--he is a whirlwind of steel and dark hair as he defends himself from attack on all sides, while putting his body between the Praetorians and Armitage. Beebee leaps and snarls, claws slashing and teeth seeking to rend flesh--but only glancing off of that gleaming red armor.

Armitage’s vision wavers; he nearly falls to his knees from the mounting agony of ignoring the commands, and he tries to hold on, tries with all of his might to shrug off this blasted curse so he can help his lover, his friends--

With a horrible, pained cry, Armitage loses the last vestiges of his control. His limbs carry him from the throne room of their own accord, breath burning in his lungs, heart screaming.

No, no no.

Poe promised he would never command Armitage, never--

But he did, and now, now Poe is going to die.

And Armitage runs.

He runs down the corridors, past the blood-soaked walls, flinging open the door to the servants’ entrance and stumbling down the passageway that leads from the castle.

He runs, and does not see where he is going, couldn’t possibly see anything through the haze of tears burning his eyes as the curse burns his bones and his exertion burns through his muscles and lungs and everything, everything is pain, his heart a small star of agony in his chest.

He runs until he passes through the hidden exit beneath the castle’s walls. He runs, his feet pounding through snow and the cold wind snapping against his exposed face and neck and wrists. He runs until he reaches the edge of the trees that crowd up against the castle’s walls, and he keeps running, until his legs give out from under him.

And everything is horribly, horribly still.

He can’t breathe. He curls over, pressing his hands and face against the snow-covered ground, the trees whirling above him. After a moment, he realizes he’s crying. 

Armitage pushes himself up from the ground, sits back on his heels, and screams.


End file.
